


The Red Thread

by PastaFossa



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, F/M, Fluff, Foggy Bargaining Away Matt's Remaining Virtue, Human Disaster Matt Murdock, Humor, Hurt Matt Murdock, Matt Murdock Gets Some God Damned Support, Matt Murdock Is A Cuddler, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Miscommunication, Mutant Reader, Off screen Torture, Rating May Change, Reader-Insert, Red Threads, References to Mental Illness in an OC, Sassy Matt Murdock, Sharing a Bed, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-15
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2018-12-29 18:53:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 44,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12091260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastaFossa/pseuds/PastaFossa
Summary: It's said that every soul is connected to another by a red thread, and that these two souls are destined to meet. The thread, though it may tangle or stretch, will never break. That's not your experience, lucky orunluckyenough as you are to see the strings that bind people together. A red thread is developed and grown, not born, and you've worked hard to weed out any semblance of crimson that might cling to you. You pay your bills, you keep your head down, and you find whatever lost people or items you're hired to sniff out.Then the Devil of Hell's Kitchen tags along on a job, and your plan falls apart.Starts prior to Into the Ring, and loosely follows the canon timeline. There will eventually be smut, so enter at your peril.





	1. Crossing Threads

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to my entry into the netflix DD fandom. Enjoy the ride!

It was night in Hell’s Kitchen, and the beasts that stalked its dark corners were quiet.

 

It was possible the weather had chased them all underground: New York City was riding the tail-end of a heatwave that had held the residents in its furnace-hot grip for weeks. During the day, the sun was intent on boiling the metropolis alive, the hum of a.c. units a never ending chorus as stray dogs panted and sprawled in whatever puddles they could find. That same heat now clung like carnival taffy to the streets, lingering even under the relative respite of night, though the beginnings of a breeze tonight heralded a coming storm that promised welcome relief.

 

Of course, it was equally possible that the uneasy quiet was due to whispers… the slowly spreading rumours of the mysterious man in black, the man in the mask. He'd supposedly ruffled quite a few feathers in this little slice of NYC. Word even had it he’d gained the attention of the Russians thanks to his constant harrying of their criminal enterprises, along with his penchant for ferociously beating the ever-loving _shit_ out of any other troublemaker he found along the way.

 

_Reckless with anger issues. That’s a healthy combination._

 

Not that any of it was your concern. No, sir. You did your best to keep your head down when it came to things like mobs and crime rings and vigilantes in masks. It wouldn't do to draw too much attention to yourself. That way led to things like _capture_ and _dissection_. You’d give a hard pass to that. Instead, you rented your little studio apartment, paid your bills, kept to yourself, and did your job to the best of your ability.

 

Speaking of which…

 

You ran your thumb over the wood in your hand, stepping up to the roof’s edge and squinting out at the city as you did so. The wood was leading you in the direction of the water, that much you could tell, but whether your goal stopped between here and there was anyone’s guess. Despite the heat, you’d been doing this for a few hours already, working slowly and patiently like a hound following a scent. Technically you were on a clock, so your tortoise methods may have seemed counterintuitive, but you had to be careful. Taking a cab would’ve been too suspicious since you had no idea where you were going or where this would take you, and owning a car in NYC didn’t appeal to your wallet. That meant you were on foot, and hoofing it carried its own set of problems. If you followed the trail into the wrong alley, that was it: no iron suit or magic hammer would be there to save you from a bullet to the skull.

 

“What I wouldn’t give for a shield…” you muttered. You tugged at your jacket and the sweat-soaked shirt underneath to loosen it from your skin. You’d contemplated ditching the jacket but frankly, you had too much shit to carry, and the light leather offered a little more protection than the simple cotton of your shirt. “Or at least some rain.”

 

“You’re not the only one.” You startled at the stranger’s voice, dropping the hunk of wood and reaching for the tactical knife hidden in your jacket as you twisted to face him. Just the weight of the hilt in your hand would have been a comfort, even if you didn’t draw it, but he was too quick. A shadow broke away from the darkness beside the rooftop bulkhead and just like that he was on top of you, his fingers closed in an iron grip around your wrist and preventing you from drawing your blade. Your free hand got twisted surprisingly gently behind your back, his body a hair’s breadth from your front. His stance, one leg close to yours, told you he was prepared to hook your feet right out from under you and send you to the ground. “Please don’t,” the man in black warned, his voice soft and dangerous. “Don’t make this a fight. My night’s been going well until now.”

 

You glanced up, shuddering at the masked face. Only his stubbled jaw and frowning mouth were exposed, the rest of his features covered in black fabric that left you unsure of where his gaze laid. Even under the getup, you could tell he was lean and hard with muscle, though the steel in his grip would have been enough of a hint. You sucked in a breath, catching snatches of scent: sweat, leather, and blood. He shifted just a little, his thigh unintentionally brushing yours. The positioning, close enough to feel the radiating heat from his body, to press your mouth to his if you wanted, would have been mildly erotic if you weren’t scared shitless. A droplet of sweat rolled down the back of your neck.

 

_How the hell isn’t he dying inside all of that?_

 

“Alright, alright.” You wince, unclenching your fingers from the handle of your knife, though he didn’t release your hand immediately. “Can’t blame a girl for being nervous.”

 

He let your hand drop, before reaching into your jacket. Bizarrely, his hand made its way immediately into the pocket sewn inside, pulling your knife out as if he’d known exactly where it was all along. He stepped back, spinning the blade around in his hands as if examining it, though he didn’t actually appear to be looking at it. After a moment he nodded and, without turning to look, tossed the knife. It disappeared into the dark, vanishing as it arced across the rooftop. You stared at him in disbelief. “Seriously?”

 

A tiny smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t worry. It’s still on the roof.”

 

How the hell did he know that when he hadn’t turned to watch where it went? _Nevermind, question for another day…_ You shook your head. “Well, what do you want? I haven’t committed any crimes, and I’m kind of busy,” you said nervously. You bit your lower lip, before releasing it and crossing your arms, grimacing as your shirt clung with sweat to your back. He hadn’t moved back towards you, content giving you your space for now, but you still didn’t trust him. Nobody knew much about this particular vigilante, besides his loathing for criminals.

 

Which you weren’t; not entirely. So in theory, you should be safe.

 

“Do you do a lot of business standing on rooftops?” He tilted his head.

 

“It’s cooler up here where the breeze can reach you,” you said stiffly. It wasn’t _entirely_ a lie. “And what about you? Find a lot of criminals and Russian mobsters up here?”

 

“You’d be surprised how many muggers would try to follow a lone woman onto the rooftop of a mostly-empty building.”

 

A cold chill ran down your spine. “You–”

 

“He started following you about six blocks ago.” Your heart thudded almost audibly in your chest. Six blocks, and you none the wiser, so caught up in your tracking were you. _Careless!_ “I persuaded him to find something more... productive to do with his time.” There was a brief flash of his teeth as a savage smile crossed his face, the snapshot glimpse of a sated wolf, before the expression was gone.

 

You let out a sigh, reaching back to scratch the back of your head. “I… thanks, I guess, then. For, um… looking out for me.”

 

“You’re welcome. But it doesn’t answer the question of why you’re on the roof now, your path through my city, or why you have a…” He paused, and from the cant of his mouth, you were _sure_ his brows were furrowed under the mask. His tone was confused when he finished, “a wooden… ice cream sundae?”

 

Abruptly, you let out a snort of laughter. You couldn’t blame him, and you guessed the shapes looked vaguely similar in the dark. “Ok. First off, I’m on the roof because I’m looking around. Same as you, I’d imagine. Second, I’m doing my job. And third,” you picked up the wooden object from the ground and held it up, “not quite ice cream.”

 

“It’s…”

 

“A duck, yes,” you finished, slipping it into your pocket for now.

 

“And what kind of job has you wandering Hell’s Kitchen carrying your wooden duck?”

 

"Does it matter? And it’s not my duck,” you said, suddenly defensive.

 

“So you stole the duck?”

 

Your jaw dropped. “I did not! I-it’s borrowed, I’m not guilty of… of…”

 

“Ducknapping? You do know I take larceny very seriously, even if it involves wooden animals.”

 

Wait, was he… he was _teasing_ you. You were standing on a rooftop joking with the man in black–by all accounts a dangerous vigilante–over a wooden duck.  “The hell is happening right now?” you mumbled, rubbing at your temples.

 

“I’m trying to decide if you’ve committed a crime, obviously. Though I’m inclined to let you go with a warning, if you swear to return your victim to his family.”

 

“Ok, that is–” you pointed a finger at his now-grinning mouth. “That is enough sass out of you. I’m-I’ve got a job to do, and you’re distracting me.”

 

"And what job would that be?”

 

This again? “You really want to know, don’t you?” You narrowed your eyes. “Why are you so interested, anyway?”

 

“You’re not a cop, or you would’ve said something by now. You keep looking down at that duck as you walk,” he said, cool and collected. “Not your phone, not a map. You’re heading in a clear direction, but you don’t walk like someone who knows where they’re going. You were upset someone followed you to cause you harm, but not enough to have never been followed by someone like that before. And you keep dodging the question about whatever it is you do.” He somehow managed to shoot you a look even with his eyes covered. “Consider my curiosity peaked.”

 

Well, when he put it _that_ way, it did look a little shifty. _And I was walking for what?_ You also really, _really_ didn’t want him to think you were a criminal. That never ended well, from what you’d heard.

 

“Look,” you sighed, planting your feet. “I’m tracking someone. His wife hired me to bring him back safely. Tonight, that’s my job. Tomorrow it might be finding some rich guy’s lost poodle, or an engagement ring that got pawned off.” You held your hands up helplessly. “I find what or who people lose. That’s it. Not exactly a criminal mastermind here.”

 

“And the wooden duck plays into this…?”

 

“It’s complicated,” you said firmly, slicing a hand through the air. This part you would _not_ budge on. “Maybe I just like holding it. We’ll leave it at that.” You weren’t exactly interested in getting into a discussion about your abilities with someone you didn’t know.

 

He stood there silently for a moment, lips pursed and head tilted. You could _feel_ his focus on you, and it was unnerving, to say the least. You were struck by the ridiculous, uneasy notion that could see under your skin, like he was peeling back the cloth and skin and nerves to examine the framework underneath. He was probably just trying to freak you out to see if you’d crack, but the hairs on the back of your neck still stood on end. Eventually, he nodded and stepped back. “Alright.”

 

“Ok.” More silence before he gestured towards you. You raised a brow. “Well? Aren’t you going to leave?”

 

“You clearly intend to keep going until you find this man.” He shook his head. “I’m not letting you go alone.”

 

“Excuse me?” you blurted, not sure you’d heard that correctly. “Hold on, don’t you have crime to stop somewhere?”

 

“You can argue with me, or you can get started. If you’re really in a hurry, then I’d suggest the latter.”

 

You swore, stalking off to the corner of the roof to retrieve your knife. He followed you without a sound, silent as a cat’s paw. “I could just lose you when I get down to street level.”

 

“You could try.” The bastard wasn’t even smug about it, just factual. “Two feet to your left, then three steps forward.”

 

What the- _son of a bitch, there it was!_ “You’re a strange dude,” you said in puzzlement as you picked up your knife.

 

“Maybe. But you’re taking directions from a wooden duck, so I don’t think either of us have room to talk.”

 

“Touché.” You slipped the knife back into your pocket and drew out the duck once more, striding back to the rooftop edge. The man followed a few steps behind, clearly intrigued by how this was going to play out.

 

You blew out a breath. You didn’t usually do this with people around, but, you reminded yourself, there was nothing for him to see. Even if he was suspicious, what you could do wasn’t flashy or obvious like turning into a green monster or lifting cars. All he would see was you, staring down at an ordinary, scratched up wooden duck. You let your eyes fall half-closed, squeezed the duck tight in your hands, and opened up.

 

How it felt, in truth, defied explanation for you. The closest you’d ever come in your research were the descriptions of _opening the_ _third eye_ , but even that didn’t seem quite right. Whatever it was called, however, ultimately had no bearing on how it worked. All you knew was you pulled apart something inside your head and suddenly, you could… _see._

 

Gleaming white threads raced out across the city, criss-crossing in complex tangles and weaves like spider’s threads that spread as far as your eye could see. They pulsed brilliantly, as they always did when you first looked, before weakening to something less tear-inducingly bright. After the typical dimming, the colors made themselves known: red and blue, green and orange and yellow. You’d long since classified the hues into _types_ : shades from yellow to red for mutual affection between people; blue for connections to inanimate, unfeeling objects; green for caring that was one sided. That last always struck you as the saddest. You glanced down at the duck, pleased to see the azure ribbon around its neck like a tiny leash had reappeared. It dipped down and trailed away into the distance, passing right through concrete and steel in a unerringly straight trail to your goal.

 

The duck meant something to the man you were after; a childhood toy, or so his wife had said. And the duck had eventually been gifted to his son. Needless to say, he had affection for it, and that meant you could trace it back to him.

 

Beside you, the man in the mask had stiffened, as if he could sense what you’d just done. _Impossible. No one can see these but me._ You resisted the urge to glance at him. You didn’t want to see what sort of connections he had. Even aside from the privacy issue, it was safer for the both of you if you had no way to identify him sans mask, and knowing the exact thread makeup tied to him was one surefire way to do that.

 

You headed towards the stairs, leaving him standing silently at the roof’s edge. Either he would follow, or he wouldn’t. It didn’t matter. You had a man to find, before the cops could do the same.

 

-x-

 

You were unbothered on the rest of your trek. There was no evidence of the man in black that you could see, no hint of his presence looking down on you. Everyone else left you alone as you walked along, save for some asshole who began to follow you, catcalling and swaggering in his drunkenness. You shook your head, determined to ignore him. He swore at you, before abruptly falling silent. You closed up, the threads temporarily winking out of existence before you turned, wary, expecting for your harasser to have been creeping up behind you. And yet all you saw were his legs slowly disappearing as he was dragged, unconscious, into an alley by unseen hands.

 

You cleared your throat to stifle a laugh, turning on your heel to go on your way, all while feeling a bit more carefree than you had a moment before.

 

-x-

 

You frowned at the duck and glanced up at the building as you let the threads fade out of sight. An empty warehouse, big and squat and forty years past its prime with its ancient brickwork, grime-covered panes and unsightly, orange-rust doors. Interesting. Your target hadn’t worked at the warehouse company in over a year, and certainly not at this particular warehouse on the outskirts of the shipping facility. He, along with just about everyone else in the company, had worked in the center section where the newer, more modern buildings sat. Or at least, that was what his wife had told you. Then again, she’d also mentioned how happy he’d been here amongst the containers and machinery. Maybe he’d come down here on his breaks.

 

At least it was cooler here close to the water, distant grumbles of thunder just barely audible at the edge of your hearing.

 

“Two people inside.”

 

You jumped, clutching at your heart before turning to glare at the man in black. “God, you gonna give me a warning next time or do I have to put a bell on you?”

 

“One of them’s a kid,” he continued, ignoring your question. Maybe sneaking around like a ninja was just standard with the black costume. “You didn’t mention a child.”

 

“No, I didn’t,” you said quietly.

 

“The man has a gun, and he’s there with a child,” the man in black said sharply, a current of anger simmering just below the surface. You didn’t question how he knew about the gun. The wife had warned you that her husband was armed, and for all you knew, the man in black had scoped the building before you arrived. _Without knowing where I was going? Unlikely._ You were tempted to ask if he could _do_ things, like you, but that felt too intimate, too personal a conversation to have with what was still a stranger. “I need to know what I’m walking into, and whether that child is in danger.”

 

“You can’t go in with me,” you said firmly. “A man in a mask will just spook him.” In truth, you hadn’t planned to go in either until now. His wife had prepared you, just in case you needed to approach, but had been understanding. ‘ _If you want, you can just call me when you find him, but please, please find him for me.’_ But now that you were here, now that you knew the kid was there with his father...

 

The masked man stepped in close, something like a plea threading through his words as he lowered his voice. “I know you don’t trust me yet, and you have no reason to. But I’ve had a million chances to harm you, and I haven’t. That’s not what I do. A child’s life is at risk. Let me help, _please_.”

 

 _Shit, that was convincing._ His tone was so earnest, soft and soothing. And he’d helped you already tonight, even if it was just keeping people off your back. Your hands clenched. You wanted to trust him, but…

 

“This isn’t a fight,” you said, glancing up at where you thought his eyes lay behind the fabric covering them. He waited patiently for you to continue. “You can’t just punch your way through this. James is just having a rough time. He needs help. If the police came, all they’d see was a man with a gun standing near a kid.”

 

“That’s why you and your client didn’t call the cops,” he murmured. You nodded.

 

“He won’t hurt his son; he loves him, loves his wife. He’s never hurt anyone in his life. He’s not dangerous. Just afraid.” You pinched the bridge of your nose. “His wife just wants them both safe. She told me a lot about James, so I could try to talk him into coming home once I found him.”

 

“Is going home going to help?” he asked, mouth tilted down into a frown.

 

You let out a bitter little growl. “No, but... Things were _fine_ before. He’d been stable for years; right therapy, right meds. But someone up the chain found out at his job, decided they didn’t want his ‘type’ working for them. He lost his job, the insurance. He thought if he ran away with the kid, got somewhere safe, his wife could… Anyway, he’s better at home than here.” You hesitantly reached out and touched the man’s forearm. The muscles tensed under your fingertips, and he made a soft noise. You needed him to trust you, because you got the feeling that there wasn’t anything that could stop him from going into the building. “If you go in with me, you can’t go in looking to kick skulls in. This one’s a victim, not a bad guy.”

 

He watched you pensively for a moment before nodding. “We’ll get them out alive. Both of them.” He rested a hand on you shoulder. “Thank you. For trusting me with this.”

 

“Well.” You waved him away, trying to play it off. “You did take out that guy who was catcalling me. And the mugger. Technically, I owe you. But I consider my debt paid after this.”

 

“Really?” He huffed a laugh. “Even though I’m the one helping you?”

 

“And I trusted you. That’s a _huge_ step for me, you have no idea.” In truth, you spent most of your time alone when you weren’t working. You couldn’t exactly afford to get _too_ close to someone now that people were on the watch for anyone ‘different’. Then there was what your abilities could be used for if you were caught by the wrong people, if you had the dreaded red thread... You’d been moving every few years on your own since you were sixteen and could fake an of-age I.D. All of that naturally engendered a lack of trust.

 

You stepped off across the street, taking advantage of the gaps between the streetlights to stay in the welcome darkness as you headed for the back of the warehouse. You drew your phone out and fired off a text to James’ wife as you went.

 

“Do you even have a plan?” the man in black asked from beside you, apparently done with roof-stalking you. You had to be careful, or you were going to start expecting him to pop up over your shoulder whenever you turned around.

 

“Go in, find him, talk to him.” Finished with your text, you shoved your hands in your pockets, hopping up onto the sidewalk and following the cracked cement to the ancient back door. “Then everyone goes home and we drink to our success. That’s the beauty in simplicity.”

 

He hummed in thought. “You should know, he’s on the second floor, west side of the building, in the…” he paused, “the office, sounds like. Pacing... There’s a staircase in the back that leads to the catwalks. You can use them to get to the office.”

 

Your steps faltered. _There it is again._ “You haven’t been here before, have you?” you asked suspiciously. He just smiled, slipping back behind you and disappearing around the front of the building.

 

The back door was locked, but the set of picks you kept inside your sock solved that problem easily enough. They wouldn’t exactly splurge for high-tech security on an old, empty warehouse that rarely saw use. The remnant scent of cigarette smoke lingering in the stagnant air, and the way the steel door opened without shrieking in protest, confirmed your suspicions: at least one person who worked at the company used this place regularly for breaks. Ancient, rusted chains dangled like streamers from the ceiling while the streetlamps’ tea-rose orange light filtered in through the yawning broken windows, casting squares of color onto the cracked cement floors. You waited for your eyes to adjust to the darkness before taking the grated staircase you could see off to your left. And damned if it didn’t lead you right to steel catwalks that ran along the walls of the warehouse. From there, the office was easy enough to find: a dim light shined through the glass windows that allowed the occupants to look down into the warehouse. You didn’t bother to pull the wooden duck from your pocket. Something told you that, like everything else, the people you were looking for would be exactly where the man in black had told you they’d be.

 

A gentle touch brushed at your back as you reached for the office door, and this time you managed to avoid leaping into the air like a startled alleycat. “You go in first,” the man in black whispered from behind you. “I don’t want him to think I’m here for him. But if he aims the gun at you or the boy, I’ll have to–”

 

“I know,” you whispered back. “Just… let’s try it my way first.”

 

He was gone by the time you touched the bent handle of the office door, vanishing off into _wherever_ it was ninja-people went when they wanted to hide. You blew out a breath, steeled yourself, and opened the door. It swung silently on its hinges, which was fortunate, since it gave you a moment to look around. Old steel desks were scattered around the room, pushed aside in some places to leave a path towards an open doorway at the far end, where the light seemed to be coming from, and a door, cracked open, on the wall to your right. You rubbed your fingers over the nearest desk, just forward and to the left of the door you'd come through, and came away with dust. _No one’s been coming up here for a smoke._ You stepped further into the room.

 

 _Creeee-ak!_ went the floorboards.

 

You weren't trying to be silent, since the last thing you wanted to do was sneak up on a guy with a gun and a twitchy finger, but still. That was loud, even for you.

 

“Who’s there?”

 

Just before the gun went off, a hand on the back of your shirt grasped you and yanked you down behind the desk you’d touched. The first round belatedly gouged a chunk from the door you'd come through. The man in the mask pulled you in tight to him, pinning you between the desk and his body as the second shot was fired wide and high, striking the office window and shattering the glass. You buried your face against the hot black fabric of his shirt, feeling more than hearing his hiss of pain as shards of glass struck him. Both shots were apparent warning rounds not intended to hit you, but the message they sent was clear. The two of you listened as James swore and a toddler began to cry.

 

 _“Ok?”_ you whispered into his shoulder. He’d taken that glass for you without even thinking, and it left you feeling equal parts grateful, strangely guilty, and vaguely unsettled. Who did that for someone they didn’t know?

 

His head turned towards you, his mouth close to your ear as he let out a harsh breath, the exhalation stirring the hair not sticking to your neck with sweat. “Fine,” he breathed, and somehow you knew he was lying.

 

_Well that went well. Fuck, what am I doing?_

 

You shifted in the man in the mask’s embrace, maneuvering until you were crouched beside him. You both needed room to move. “We’re not here to hurt you, James!” you shouted. The stifling air in the room was stagnant and heavy with heat despite the cracked windows. You frantically wiped the sweat from your face.

 

“Then leave! Please, I don’t want to have to hurt you. Just go away and leave us alone.” His voice was shaky, but you had no doubt his aim was steady. He’d had training, once upon a time. He knew how to aim, and he’d have hit you if he’d wanted to.

 

“I was hired by your wife to find you two and bring you home safe,” you called out. “So I can’t do that. My name is Jane.” It wasn’t actually your real name, but it was the name you’d chosen for your stay in the city, and you stuck to it now.

 

“Bullshit! You don’t bring some masked guy with you to _‘bring me home safe’_ ,” James chuckled, a broken sound just tinged with panic.

 

“James, I’m just here to help and make sure no one gets hurt,” the man in the mask said. He rolled his shoulders with a grimace, glass falling free from his shirt. You could just barely see the wet gleam of blood around his shoulders; no doubt it was even worse across his back.

 

“I’d never hurt my son.” James sucked in a breath across the room, the floors creaking as he began to pace in agitation. His son started to quiet now that the loud sounds didn’t continue. “Or my wife. She wanted me to wait, not leave but then, I can’t… I couldn't let them take him.”

 

“Who’s they, James?” you asked softly. The despair in his voice made you ache; you had, _had_ to walk out of here with everyone alive.

 

“I… CPS. They was… that asshole, he got me fired. And then called CPS on me. They were gonna come for my boy, I just know it. I couldn’t provide and…” A quiet sniffle. “I never laid a hand on my boy in his life. Never even yelled at him. But they wouldn’t of believed that. They’d be like the company, they’d just see how I can’t get good treatment no more and I can't find a job… I won't let them do it. I'm gonna get on a ship with my boy, and when we get somewhere safe where they don't know me, my girl, she’s gonna come to us. It's the only way.”

 

_A victim, not a criminal._

 

He wasn't going to shoot you.

 

“James, I’m going to step out now. And so is my friend here. So you can see us, ok?” To his credit, the man in the mask must have come to the same conclusion, rising to his feet smoothly beside you, his hands up like yours. In the dim light–a nightlight for James’ son, you realized, plugged into the wall on the far side of the room–you could see James, his gun in hand. He’d shifted his aim to over your shoulder towards the wall behind you. He was soaked in sweat, dark circles under his eyes, skin drawn tight. God, he must’ve been exhausted. “We just want to talk. Neither of us want to hurt you.”

 

“James, please,” the man in the mask said gently. “Your son is scared. So is your wife. We can fix this, all of this.”

 

He shook his head. “No way you can fix it, you’re just–”

 

The man in the mask gestured sharply. Another small shard of glass dropped and you winced in sympathy. “What they did to you? What they fired you for? It’s against the law. And I _swear_ James, I’ll–I can put you in contact with a lawyer who will take your case. You have a case, you and your family. They won't take your son.”

 

“It won’t help,” James said helplessly. “We’ve barely got money for food now; no way we can afford that.”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” the man in the mask said breathlessly. It startled you, the passion in his voice as he spoke. And it was affecting James, too, if his faltering stance was any indication. “He’ll take your case. James, you don’t have to do this. You can go home, be a family with your wife and son. Let us help you.”

 

“I’m going to pull my phone out, James,” you said, leaving one hand in the air. Both men tensed as you reached into your pocket, drawing your phone out slowly so James could see. “There. I think there’s someone you need to talk to.” You scrolled through the contacts, the man in the mask continuing in his efforts to convince James as you did so. You hit the number, and when the call connected, you switched it to speakerphone and held it up

 

_“James, baby, is that you? Please, baby, you gotta come home...”_

 

That ended up being the last piece needed. James dropped his aim, voice broken as he spoke to his wife.

 

-x-

 

You watched the car disappear around the corner, and it was only then you finally relaxed.

 

“You’re going to have to give me the number of your lawyer friend,” you said to the man in the mask, glancing over at him. You knew he was probably planning to _whoosh_ away into the shadows as soon as you looked away; all the hero types did.

 

And you could let him. It probably wasn't a bad idea, all things considered. Getting too friendly with anyone was _bad._ A few hours running around was one thing. That wouldn't be enough to form a thread; any more time after tonight, however, could be dangerous depending on whether Sir Ninja Zorro continued to be so god damned _likeable_.

 

Yes. You would do it. You'd let him whoosh away and you'd never see him again, other than on the news maybe. And in a few years you'd leave Hell’s Kitchen, and then in your twilight days, every now and then, you'd fondly reminisce over the man in the mask and how you totally could have been bros. _And that's settled._

 

“Are you looking for legal assistance, Jane?” Something about the way he said the name gave you the impression he found it funny, though you weren’t sure why. There was no way he could’ve known you lied about it.

 

You shrugged and said casually, “you’d be surprised at the number of people who want to sue over being found.”

 

He chuckled at your reference to his earlier words, then winced.

 

Right. The cuts. _I like my plan, but…_ He’d been injured helping _you_ , so technically this was your fault. Could you really let him leave without at least _offering_ to lend a hand? You didn't even know if he had anyone else to help, and he couldn't exactly stitch his back alone…

 

_Ok, new plan. It's just a few more hours. I'll be fine. Then the old plan. This is fine._

 

“Alright, let me see it.” You spun your finger, mind made up. You tried not to think too hard about your decision. “Give me a spin. I need to make a damage assessment.”

 

“I told you, it’s fine,” he said, his easy nature temporarily replaced with stubbornness and apparent masochism. His statement was entirely at odds with the blood that had soaked the back of his shirt. Figures that he’d balk at _your_ help for something this minor. “I can’t stay, anyway, it’s–”

 

“Come on,” you sighed. “You’re bleeding, you’ve been sliced up by glass, and something tells me you don’t do hospitals and _how the hell do you look sheepish when I can only see your mouth?_ ” It was ridiculous, really, the amount of emotion you could get out of just the lower half of his face. At least it was a nice lower half. “Never mind. After everything you’ve done to help me out with this, the _least_ you can do for my conscience is allow me to give you a drink while I pick glass out of your back and stitch you up. Then you give me the number of your lawyer friend, and you can run off and never see me again.” You forced the image of him _shirtless_ out of your mind–lord, what a sight that must be–as you finished your mini lecture and shoved a hand in his direction. “Sound good?”

 

“There’s no arguing with you on this, is there?” He sounded amused, slipping his gloved hand into yours.

 

“Nope,” you said, popping the _p._ “You’re stuck with me, at least for the next few hours.”

 

“I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how it was you tracked James here, or what your real name is?”

 

_Damn it..._

 

“Only if you tell me your name and how you sniffed out everyone in the building,” you muttered. “This is a quid-pro-quo thing we have here between us.”

 

“And here I thought we were friends,” he mused thoughtfully. You flushed pink at the reminder of what you’d said earlier and waved him off.

 

“Time’s wasting, you're bleeding, and I need a drink.” A step off the curb as you started down the streets back towards your place–this time, your apartment, instead of your office. No way the man in the mask could take a cab, so the least you could do was stay on foot for him. Though you had to move quickly if you wanted to beat the rain, those distant rumbles fast approaching. A glance back showed you he was gone from the street, vanishing into the darkness. “You better not ditch me on the way home,” you shouted.

 

A soft laugh from somewhere up above was all you got in response.

 

-x-

 

By the time you made it back to your apartment, you were half convinced he'd taken off, and just a little sad at the thought.  To your surprise, however, there was a knock at your window, the one by the fire escape, just as you toed off your shoes by the front door and hung your coat. “Huh. What do ya know.” You hurried over to flip the latch and slide the window up, stepping back as the man in bla-

 

“Ok, I've been calling you ‘man in black’ in my head for too long now. I need something shorter.” You gestured him towards the chairs and table in the ‘dining’ section of your studio as you headed for the kitchen, flipping on the lights as you did so. A brilliant flash of lightning lit the skies outside and the ensuing _boom_ of thunder rattled your windows as you pulled two bottles of beer from the fridge and brought them to the table. Then it was back to grab the first aid kit from the cupboard, and some wet rags. As the much-welcomed rain began to pound against the building, you grabbed a battery powered lantern from the cupboard in case you lost power. “I know you won't tell me your name but you have to have a nickname or something.”

 

“‘John’ seems appropriate if you're calling yourself ‘Jane’.” He let out a little groan as he sat in the chair and began to peel his bloodied shirt up over his head.

 

“Ha, you’re hilarious,” you said dryly. Either way, ‘John’ worked, you thought as you washed your hands. “Well, I gotta tell you John, I didn't think you'd actually show.”

 

“I wasn't going to,” he admitted as you turned towards him with the kit. “But I can feel a piece of glass I couldn’t reach, and decided to take you up on your offer.”

 

A moment of static in your brain as you took in the lean, scarred expanse of skin before you. Even smeared with blood and riddled with gashes, you could see how the muscles flexed and shifted as he set his shirt aside and leaned forward to rest his arms on the table. A burning-hot memory of his scent hit you, what he'd smelled like when you’d had your face buried against his chest.

 

_Completely inappropriate to be thinking of this right now._

 

“-ane?”

 

You shook it off, grabbing your second dining chair and pulling it over to him. You set the kit on the table and pulled out the alcohol, tweezers, and needle, setting the last two inside a small cup and pouring the liquid in. Next, you fished inside the kit for some latex gloves, along with a few other things. “You need anything before I start this?” you asked, hoping he wouldn't notice how flustered you'd momentarily become. “Tequila? A knock over the head?”

 

You were quickly growing fond of that little huff he made when he was trying not to laugh. “I'm alright,” he said. “Getting stitched up isn't uncommon for me, if you can believe it. Although usually it's my hands working the needle. This is a lot easier.”

 

“What can I say?” You started with a wet rag to carefully mop up some of the blood. Cleaning the workspace, as it were. Next would come the alcohol and the tweezers. “I've got the magic touch, fortunately for you.” You could already see the thumb-sized shard of glass he’d mentioned, halfway up and just to the right of his spine. It looked painful where it was embedded, despite his lack of any real complaint, so you resolved to pull that one first.

 

It seemed like with every inch of clean skin revealed by the rag, you found another scar. You paused to brush your thumb over a particularly nasty looking one near his shoulder blade. He shivered just a little. “And I thought mine were bad,” you murmured. “These look like they really hurt.”

 

“They did,” he replied, shifting as you reached for the alcoholic wipes and began to clean around the wounds. “Mistakes, mostly. When I got careless... impatient.”

 

You made a sound of agreement, setting the wipes down and plucking the tweezers up. “I think everyone's got those. Yours are just a little more… physical. Big pinch,” you finished with a warning as you carefully grasped the glass shard with the tweezers and drew it free from his skin. He didn't lock up or cry out, but the small breath he sucked in through his teeth told you it hurt. You shook your head, dropping the glass into the tray. “You really are used to this.”

 

“Did you think I was- _ah-_ lying? _”_

 

 _“_ Sorry.” You patted his shoulder in sympathy and plunked the next shard in the tray. “And lying? No. Being a little hyperbolic? Maybe. I’m starting to revise my assessment, though.”

 

“If it makes you feel any better, I kind of wish I could say I was lying.”

 

You snorted, leaning in close to eyeball the next few shards. Unfortunately, there had only been two large pieces. The rest were much smaller and required you to get an up close look. “But only kind of,” you teased, going to work. “Are you a masochist, sir?”

 

“Comes with the territory when you’re catholic.” You didn’t have to see his mouth to hear the smirk.

 

“Well _that_ explains a lot,” you mock-sighed, dropping the last few bits of glass into the tin. “The scars, the way I’m pulling glass and you’re barely blinking. What have they done to you?” You leaned forward again, peering closely at the cuts. You didn’t _see_ anymore, but-

 

John shifted, half-turning his head. “There’s a little piece, in the cut on my shoulder.” You shifted your gaze, and under his direction, managed to spot the subtle glint hiding in the trickling blood on his shoulder. That piece was the smallest yet, not even the size of a child’s finger nail. You carefully moved the tails of his mask and then, holding your breath, you gently pulled the shard free. The both of you let out a sigh as you dropped the last piece into the tray and set the tweezers aside. You hadn’t realized how _tense_ he was until that moment, when he finally seemed to relax against the table. Without thinking, you reached up and rubbed gently at some of the pressure points on the back of his neck. His grateful groan that slipped out left you feeling warm inside. Realizing belatedly what you'd done, you quickly dropped your hand and cleared your throat.

 

“Better?”

 

“You have no idea,” he said softly.

 

“Considering I’ve never had that much glass in me, I’m guessing you’re right.” Out came the needle, now. If he’d been calm for the glass, this part was going to be a cakewalk. “Glass in anyone’s skin has got to be painful. Does the way you’re taking this right now have to do with,” you hesitated, licking your lips, “your… abilities?”

 

Silence, tension so thick you could trip over it, as you threaded the needle. It was a stab in the dark, but you were feeling fairly confident. Your brain’s gears had been turning on the walk back, contemplating the way he seemed so _aware_ of where everything was. The way he’d pulled your knife from your jacket, and disappeared into the shadows. The only answer you could come up with was that he could _do_ things, like you could. Or, well, better than you could. Your ability was kind of worthless outside of a certain context.

 

“And just what is it you think I can do?” he asked quietly. You licked your lips again. He hadn’t _left_ yet, but you could sense you were walking on thin ice here. You hesitantly touched at his back and prepared to stitch. The fact that he _let_ you meant he was planning to stay at least long enough for you to get him patched up, which was a good sign.

 

“I don’t know, I just… wondered,” you said, touching the tip of the needle lightly to his skin for a moment, giving him a chance to prepare before you pressed it through his skin. “I mean, you seemed pretty sure that I was doing some weird shit, too. Just seeing if you were like me. If I’m wrong, I’ll drop it.”

 

But you couldn't keep the hope from your voice. Having abilities was… _lonely._ Sure there were the Avengers, but they were so far above people like you on the ground, they may as well have been gods. Just the act of knowing this bleeding, passionate, _human_ man in your kitchen was like you…

 

Dangerous for you, this line of thinking.

 

_But is it worth risking a thread?_

 

You scoffed internally. What were the odds he stuck around long enough, would care enough, for that to happen?

 

He’d settled by degrees while you were thinking, and no longer looked like he was about to bolt from the chair. “You’re...” He shook his head, his hands clenching and relaxing on the table. “Are you planning to tell anyone about this? And don’t try to lie; I’ll know if you are.” His words were said with the same confidence as his words on the rooftop, _‘two feet to your left, three steps forward’_ , as sure as his hands when he pulled you in at just the right angle to shield you from the glass. He turned to look over his shoulder, leaving his face in profile.

 

What would have happened to you, you wondered, if you’d been planning to lie now? Would he leave? Destroy your apartment as a warning? Fortunately for you, you wouldn’t have to find out. You had no reason to lie.

 

You did your best to meet the gaze you couldn’t see, pausing with your needle. “Anything you tell me is safe here,” you said. “I won’t tell. And hey, quid pro quo, remember? You tell me yours, I tell you mine.”

 

More silence, and you let it hover as you went back to stitching. Minutes ticked by, and you placed a bandage over the biggest, now-sewn cut before moving on to the second, slowly closing up the open wounds on his back.

 

“You’re not wrong.”

 

You smiled.


	2. The Mystery Lawyer and the New Client

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have been going so well since meeting the Man in Black that you haven't needed a lawyer, until now. At least you have a new, rich client to help you pay your legal fees. 
> 
> Unfortunately, Matt Murdock continues to be a disaster.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First, thank you SO MUCH for all the reviews. I know I haven't responded to them yet, but I have read them and I'll respond to them all in the next couple days. They kept me going during some shit that came up that was not pleasant to deal with. Hopefully we'll be on a more regular posting schedule now. 
> 
> The good news is, this chapter is much longer, so hopefully that will make up for it. Been working on this one for quite a bit. Enjoy!

 

Even doing brisk business, it was two months before you needed a lawyer.  
  
“This just requests the basics, of course. You’re free to discuss it with whatever council you have.” The lawyer sitting on the other side of your desk smiled at you, his teeth gleaming unnaturally white against his boating tan as he slid the stack of papers across the surface in front of you. His Armani suit fit him perfectly, his human skin less so: an ill fit for the hungry, calculating predator that lurked beneath the grin and the scent of fine cologne.  
  
“I’m not sure why you need any information about me at all.” You leaned back in your leather chair, crossing your legs as you studiously kept your face blank. Years of experience had taught you not to show fear around lawyers if you could help it. You were convinced they could sense weakness, as easily as a prowling lion on the savannah could scent a bleeding gazelle. “I’m not involved in the divorce proceedings. I have nothing you want.”  
  
“Maybe not, but your actions might help us construct a better picture of the family before you found Mr. Sanders.” _Found him balls-deep inside an escort, you mean._ “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Sanders estate is substantial. If it’s to be divided fairly, we have to be thorough. You understand.”  
  
“Uh-huh,” you muttered. “Thorough.” You plucked up the first sheet of paper and gave it a cursory once-over. _Too much lawyer speak for me._ You flipped to the next page. You only managed to parse out a few of the requests. If you were reading it right, they were seeking information about your business, your partner, your contact with Mrs. Sanders, and… yourself.  
  
Your false identity was of excellent quality thanks to years you spent sussing out decent forgers, but you doubted it was good enough to stand up to a pack of sharks with seven-figure price tags. Not without a shark of your own, anyway.  
  
“Naturally these questions might not be needed, should certain information come to light.”  
  
_Ah, and there’s the catch_. In New York, if a spouse found themselves saddled with an unfaithful partner, they could seek an at-fault divorce. That type of divorce would only be granted under certain conditions: adultery being one of those conditions. Adultery was difficult to prove, however; they couldn’t exactly rely on the spouse’s testimony. A third party like you, on the other hand… you were the ace in the hole for Mrs. Sanders, her key to forcing a settlement in her favor, or even winning a case if it went that far. If you denied seeing Sanders going to town with another woman, you’d be off the hook with the lawyers, but Mrs. Sanders could be played up as yet one more paranoid, jealous spouse in search of a pay day. And if you refused to bow out? Then it was in Mr. Sanders’ best interest to dig up as much dirt on you as possible. They were no doubt hoping to find enough to bury you and taint any testimony you might give.  
  
“I’ll discuss it with my lawyers and get back to you.” You spoke confidently, and with as much self-assurance as you could muster. The problem was you didn’t actually _have_ lawyers. You eyed the gleaming silver clip holding the business cards on your neatly-arranged-in-case-clients-see-me desk. You may not have had lawyers just yet, but you had a feeling you knew where you could get some. Ones of supposed quality at that.  
  
He nodded to you, rising from his seat. You had to resist the urge to crumple a piece of paper and chuck it at his face. You were an adult, goddamn it. “We’ll be waiting for your response. Have a good day, Ms. Hinde.”  
  
You waited until the door clicked quietly behind him before you sagged back in your chair and scrubbed your hands through your hair in frustration. There were a great many things you enjoyed about your job here: you got to use your abilities in a way that helped people for one, and even when you provided assistance to less… _savory_ individuals, the pay more than made up for it. You liked not starving to death, and rent in NYC was too high for you to feel justified in snubbing every mildly suspicious person that came along. That willingness to at least _listen_ to the people who walked in your door had allowed you to meet some interesting people, and ultimately most of your work wasn’t too difficult. Plus all the walking meant you got more exercise than most people managed in a week. _Suck it, ten-thousand steps.  
  
_ On the other hand, the times you ended up scrapping, physically or legally, with assholes who took issue with you were very much in the ‘cons’ of your ‘pros-and-cons’ list. Which brought you back to your need for representation. You glanced at the ticking clock on the wall. It was just past lunch and you had an uncharacteristically free schedule today. If nothing came up…  
  
You leaned forward and began to flip through the business cards in your clip until you found the card shoved in at the back. Fortunately for you, you’d found the card in your mailbox not long after your first meeting with the Man in Black. This one was unlike some of the other cards you’d been given, with their gold engraved script and paper heavy with the weight of exotic finishes and pretentiousness. No, this card had been simple: plain and white with a deep red font. The only part of the design that stood out was the braille underneath the first two lines:

_Nelson and Murdock_

_Attorneys At Law_

⠠⠁⠞⠞⠕⠗⠝⠑⠽⠎ ⠠⠁⠞ ⠠⠇⠁⠺

  
On the back there was a phone number, in English and in braille. You’d also recently scribbled an address and their new office number underneath the old. You traced your thumb over the tiny dots pebbled along the card’s surface. You’d filed the card away in case you needed it, absently shuffling it to the back of the pile. While you liked to have lawyers on hand for any issues which might arise, you hadn’t needed one for some time, and had naïvely been hoping that luck would continue. _Guess not_.  
  
You’d looked up the firm out of curiosity once or twice. The Man in Black had warned you back when you’d first gotten the card that _Nelson and Murdock_ didn’t have an address yet, and your first online search had confirmed it. It was only with a subsequent search in the past few weeks that you found a new local address right in Hell’s Kitchen. You’d passed the building before—not unusual with all the walking you did—but you’d never given it much notice. More research revealed that while the lawyers themselves appeared to lack experience, they’d graduated with top marks and had turned down a high-paying position so they could instead work in Hell’s Kitchen. The tentative feelers you’d put out with your contacts had brought back nothing but praise and you’d found yourself touched with a grudging admiration. They certainly didn’t seem like the skeezy ambulance chasers you were used to hiring, and they were more affordable to boot. This you’d been promised sincerely by the Man in Black when you’d ‘bumped into’ him again shortly after finding the card.  
  
You drummed your fingers on the wood of your desk, glancing out the window and taking a sip of your coffee. Your encounters above the streets of Hell’s Kitchen had become almost regular.   
  
_“You following me, John? Because this is turning into a weekly thing, you and me...”  
  
“Most people don’t spend as much time on rooftops as we do, apparently. We’re bound to run into each other.”  
  
_ While he’d only returned to your apartment once for stitches, he’d rapidly become a routine sight for you when you headed up to the rooftops to get a look at where a thread was leading you. Sometimes it was a simple wave as he passed by on neighboring roofs, too busy to stop. You always took the time to pause and watch, the fluid way he progressed and leapt over obstacles an entrancing sight you unabashedly enjoyed partaking in. Other nights he approached you to talk, or even offer his help for the evening. Those approaches were always soundless, and it was only after repeated admonishments and two near heart attacks on your part that he’d taken to making a rhythmic series of taps along a hard surface to alert you to his presence so you didn’t jump out of your skin. Your blood pressure was eternally grateful.  
  
A different rhythm of knocking pulled you from your thoughts, and you grunted in response. Taking the sound for what it was, the door swung open just far enough for Maya to pop her head in. “Just checking to make sure you’re not throwing your mug in here again.”  
  
“Ha ha,” you snorted, throwing her a look. “You’re safe until my coffee runs out.”  
  
“Good reason to keep the pot full I guess,” she said in reply, nudging the door open the rest of the way. “Well, you better straighten up and slap your best smile on. We got a rich one comin’ in soon for you if the way he talks is anything to go by.”  
  
“Ah shit,” you grumbled, standing up to straighten out your trousers and shirt. There were no stains, so that was something at least, but you’d been in a rush this morning. Your outfit wasn’t of the quality you’d normally have chosen to wear when meeting a new, wealthy client. “You sure you can’t take him? You’re way more put together today.”  
  
“Don’t I know it,” she teased, flashing you a smug smile. As always, her pantsuit was immaculate and you’d yet to see a time her riot of dark curls looked anything less than regal. “Unfortunately for you, he didn’t ask for me. He’s looking for the psychic.” She flicked her fingers at you.  
  
“I’m starting to think we should put that on our card,” you mumbled as you hastily shifted the stack of legal files into a drawer and tucked away the Nelson and Murdock business card into your pocket. You and Maya had only described yourselves vaguely as ‘finders’, but the two of you made no effort to squash the rumours that you had some sort of gift. It had a tendency to bring in clients. Psychic sounded a lot better than ‘mutant’ after all, and people who made similar claims were a dime a dozen in NYC, so you fit right in.  
  
“Nah, let ‘em wonder,” Maya said, waving you off. “It adds to the mystique if they think we’re trying to keep it under wraps. Out on the card is too flashy. We want news of the psychic to spread by word of mouth.”  
  
“Don’t tell me you still believe I’m psychic,” you scoffed, wrinkling your nose at her. It had become a continuing gag between you two. _Deny, deny, deny.  
  
_ “I’m not sure what I believe about you. All I know is, your success rate is just as good as mine and you do half the work,” she mock complained, jabbing a finger in your direction. “I go out there, no rubber duckies or dog toys, and find shit the old fashioned way. I want whatever you’re in on.”  
  
“Maybe I’m just that good.” You flashed an innocent smile, holding up your hands in a helpless gesture.  
  
“Always bullshitting me. Keep your secrets!”  
  
There was another knock down the hall, and you shooed Maya back to her own office as you stood and strode over to poke your head out into the hall. She retreated with a wink as the door between the waiting room and the hallway leading to your offices opened and your assistant ushered an unfamiliar man through the open door.  
  
Though not garish or excessive in flaunting his wealth, there radiated from him a subtle aura of sophistication and elegance, helped in part by his high-end suit, as he moved confidently down the hall. He nodded at Maya where she stood in the doorway to her own office across the hall from yours. “Ms. Thompson, I presume.” His hair was dark and lightly styled, perfectly groomed, and the black-rimmed glasses he wore lent him a seriousness you knew you’d do well to heed. The calm gaze slid to you and, with a polite smile, he offered you the hand not currently holding his briefcase. “And you must be Ms. Hinde. A pleasure to meet you.”  
  
You took the offered hand and shook, relieved he didn’t feel the desire to overcompensate by crushing your hand like some of the other men you’d met. _Clearly not someone who needs to piss all over every room he enters._  “A pleasure as well.” He hadn’t offered you a name, but that wasn’t always unusual in your line of work. Sometimes your clients preferred to keep their names out of your paperwork. “You’re my appointment, I presume?”  
  
“So I’m told,” he replied agreeably. You gestured towards your office before leading him into it. He shut the door behind him and took a seat before your desk. Unsurprisingly, he stuck out like a sore thumb. Your office was decorated in warm tones, soft fabrics, and dark woods: all designed to put your clients at ease in what was usually a stressful time. In contrast, there was nothing soft about this man, though his manners and seemingly pleasant nature went a long way to make up for it. His navy suit was also likely the most expensive thing currently in residence. If that fact bothered him, he didn’t show it. All this you absorbed in but a few seconds as you rounded your desk to settle into your chair. You were used to analyzing clients. “I must apologize for the short notice, but you’ve only recently come to the attention of my employer and I’m afraid I’ve a matter of some urgency.”  
  
“It’s no trouble,” you said, resisting the urge to wave him off like you would in a more casual setting. It was always best to follow the tone your client set, which meant professionalism was the name of the game today. You settled for folding your hands. “Most of my clients come to me desiring a certain amount of speed. I’m pleased to say I find my targets in less than twenty-four hours on average, once all the requirements are met. That last part is usually what takes the longest.” You watched as he lifted his briefcase and unsnapped the clasps. At his gesture towards your—thank god _clean_ —desk, you nodded. He placed the briefcase on the desk and began to withdraw a short stack of paperwork. Your eyebrows shot up when you recognized the forms. “Although it appears you’ve decided to be proactive on that front. I’m impressed.”  
  
He chuckled. “As I said, efficiency is important to my employer. I’ve done my research, and all the forms should be here, signed and witnessed. Under these,” he tapped the top of the stack, “are the files containing the information you’d need to find your target, should you accept the job. You could say I’m familiar with cutting through red tape.”  
  
You drew the forms in and began to scan over them. The man crossed a leg and steepled his fingers, apparently content to wait. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him glancing curiously around your office as you read. These were indeed your forms, but you were still thorough in checking the signatures—though they were really just initials and corporation names; your contracts purposefully allowed the determined to slide on personal information—and the text itself.   
  
“Let me guess,” said the man with a smile. “You’ve had people slip in an extra clause here and there?”  
  
You huffed a laugh, flipping a page. “That obvious, hm?”  
  
“There is a certain predictability to people, I’ve found. It stands to reason it would be the same here. I can assure you, however, that the forms have not been changed.” You glanced up and he held up a placating hand. “I’m sure others have said the same thing. I don’t take offense, and I can even appreciate your caution. It’s something I try to practice in my own work.”  
  
You nodded and went back to reading for the next few minutes. Your assistant knocked, and at your murmur to enter, he quietly opened the door and poked his head in. “Anything to drink for you, sir? Coffee, tea, wine, water?”  
  
“No, thank you,” said the man.  
  
“Ms. Hinde?"  
  
“I’m fine. Thank you, Daniel.”  
  
The door shut, and you were both alone again.  
  
_Well, that’s a relief at least._ He hadn’t been lying. There were no changes, no devious red lines crossing clauses out. Just signatures and signed statements. You sighed happily. “This will cut down a great deal of extra time. Based on how prepared you’ve been up to this point, I assume you know what I’m going to say next, but it’s just for safety’s sake. You understand?”  
  
“Of course.” He settled back, completely at ease.  
  
“My job is to find who or what you’re looking for. However, if while on the job I should at any time witness an _attempted_ crime or _actual_ crime in progress, or hear plausible talk of a crime being committed due to my involvement, our deal will be terminated.” It was a subtle distinction, your wording and emphasis carefully chosen, but you were certain this man would understand the underlying message: _be discrete in any criminal activity, and I can keep doing my job for you_. That plausible deniability was what allowed you to avoid any potential charges of involvement while ensuring you still got your paycheck. “If this occurs, I will be absolved of any legal damages. I will also retain my fee. Beyond that, anything else is your business and not my concern, outside of what I need to know to do my job. You’ve already agreed by signing the contract, so you know all this, but we like to have verbal confirmation. Do you accept these terms?” You weren’t sure if this man fell into the same criminal category that a few of your previous clients had been in, but it was best to be certain he knew where the line was.  
  
“I do.”  
  
“This does not involve stalking? Neither you, nor your employer?”  
  
“It does not.” His tone suggested amusement at that particular question.  
  
“Is the target hostile?”  
  
“No. Should you accept the job, all that’s required is that you find him, and ask him to return to work.” He flashed a smile. “Should be easy enough.”  
  
You nodded again. “The papers said you’re looking for a person. You can provide me with an object the target cares about?”  
  
“The item will be delivered to you tomorrow morning at 8:00 a.m. by courier at an address of your choosing.”  
  
_He really is prepared._ You chewed on the inside of your cheek, watching him curiously. How far did his preparation go? “My fee?”  
  
He reached into his jacket and drew out a check. A second later, a pen followed, and he signed the check before sliding it across the table. His signature was, as with most people, illegible, so there was no way of divining his real name. “The second half will come at the conclusion. This is standard, I was told. As you can see, my employer is willing to provide a substantial bonus to you should you find the target as quickly as possible. Potentially more for any future assistance. I hope that’s acceptable?”  
  
You glanced at the check and your heart thudded inside your chest, your mouth going dry. _Holy shit!_ That was a _lot_ of extra money. With your standard fee, you managed to make a decent amount of money considering the cost of living in NYC. Over your years on the move—years in which you’d lived and worked in a location only until you drew too much attention—you’d managed to squirrel away a sizeable nest egg. You’d hoped that money would one day buy you a safe and cozy hut on an island somewhere off the radar. With these extra zeroes, however, your dream beach house suddenly looked a _lot_ closer. _If I do this regularly... hell, even just once a month for a year…  
  
_ You resisted the urge to gape at him. You cleared your throat with a heavy swallow. “That’s… yeah, that’ll do.”  
  
“Excellent.” He stood smoothly, straightening his jacket. “Am I to understand this means you’ll be accepting us?”  
  
On the one hand, all that money, along with clues like the absence of his name, meant you were dealing with someone who was potentially shifty. _CIA agent? Mob boss?_ On the other hand, he was pleasant and polite, and with this one job you could easily pay for rent, groceries, utilities, business costs, and the potential legal fees at Nelson and Murdock, while still leaving plenty leftover to put towards your savings. And maybe splurge a little.  
  
_Eh, I’ve probably had worse clients_.  
  
You stood and held out your hand to shake. “Sounds like we have a deal.”  
  
He grinned, shaking your hand. “Wonderful. My employer will be pleased.” His free hand slipped into his suit pocket and drew out a card to hand to you. Unlike the other card in your pocket, this one was plain black, nothing but a phone number in white on it. “If you have any other questions, feel free to contact me.”  
  
“Of course,” you said graciously, slipping the card into your pocket alongside the _Nelson and Murdock_ card and following him to the door. In truth, if they brought you the right item, you most likely wouldn’t need to call him, but the courtesy was appreciated. “I’ll get on it as soon as I receive the item. You can just have the courier bring it here.”  
  
He nodded in agreement, stepping out into the hall. “Have a good afternoon, Ms. Hinde.”  
  
“You, too.” A thought popped into your head and you couldn’t help but blurt out, “Sir?” He paused, turning to glance back, his glasses flashing in the soft light of the hall. “You never asked about…” You drew a hand in, gesturing towards yourself.  
  
“About how you find people?” he asked. At your murmur of affirmation, he shrugged. “To put it quite simply, Ms. Hinde: my employer isn’t interested in ‘how’. Perhaps the rumours are true, and you’re a psychic. Or maybe you’re simply a businesswoman who understands that people will pay extra for the reassurance that their superstitions will remain intact. As long as you fulfill your end of the contract, we aren’t concerned with the particulars.”  
  
It was a refreshingly indifferent opinion when you’d grown accustomed to people pestering, pressing, questioning you about whether you had ‘the gift’. You relaxed, giving him a wave as he left and you turned back to your office.  
  
_Well, that took less time than expected,_ you thought as you made your way back to your desk _._ Technically you had another four hours on the clock, but with no appointments left today…  
  
You drew the _Nelson and Murdock_ card from your pocket and settled into your chair, picking up the phone to dial. As you waited for someone to pick up, you glanced over the stack of files your latest client had given you, absently scanning for information. _Hm, not a whole lot about the target’s habits._ In fact, not a whole lot at all. You frowned. Whatever they were bringing you tomorrow better work, or you were going to have nothing else to go on.  
  
Just as you were preparing to leave a message, your heard the telltale _click_. The woman who picked up huffed a few breaths, as if she’d been in another room and run for the phone, before speaking with the slow cadence of someone who was still unused to their new script. _New, maybe?  
  
“Nelson and Murdock, this is Karen speaking. How can I help you?”  
  
_ “Hi, my name is Jane Hinde. I’m looking for legal help and was wondering if I could make an appointment?”  
  
_"Really?! I-yes of course._ ” In the background you just barely caught the sounds of hushed whispering. “ _At Nelson and Murdock, while we’re quite busy, we can always make time for those in need of assistance. When would you like to be scheduled in?”  
  
_ “I mean, sooner is usually better, right?” It was easy enough to take time off work for this, since it would help the business. Maya would be understanding. “Tomorrow won’t work though.” You didn’t want anything scheduled that could potentially interfere with the case you’d just received; not when you’d been paid extra for haste.  
  
_“Give me a moment, let me check-ah! I can, um, fit you in today if you’d like? We don’t have any other-”_ There was more frantic whispering, and Karen almost laughed before continuing, “ _I mean, we just had a, uh, cancellation? So we can work around your schedule. Only the best here.”  
  
_ You snorted, glancing at the clock again. The office wasn’t that far away and the streets weren’t busy. “I can be there in a half hour, if that’s alright?”  
  
_“Of course. We’ll see you then!”  
  
_ You hung up and stood to stretch. “This is going to be interesting,” you murmured to yourself. You were just going to have to trust the Man in Black when he’d said it would be worth it.

 

-x-

 

Up close, the aging white-painted steel entrance wasn’t any more impressive than it had been from across the street. With the office up above a hardware store, and the doorway tucked between said hardware store and a residence, you weren’t surprised you’d missed it before; it didn’t exactly attract notice. You hesitantly brushed your fingers over the worn stonework surrounding the door and the outside of the building. It was stained with age, and smooth under your fingertips. The paper sign on the door told you this was the right place. Should you open up your third eye, glance up and see how many connections radiated from the office above you? People with a great deal of red threads tended to be more friendly and open. If there was a great blaze of scarlet streaming away from the building, it would be a good sign. You shook your head and grasped the door handle. _Serious invasion of privacy, remember?_ The Man in Black hadn’t steered you wrong once so far, and presumably wouldn’t now.  
  
Before you could make any further movement, the door swung open, knocking you back against the stone wall as a dark-haired man in a grey suit stepped out hurriedly, his face and most of his body turned away from you. _  
  
_ “Hey,” you snapped in annoyance, surging away from the stone and taking a step towards him. “Watch where you’re going! What are you, bl-” He glanced back over his shoulder, revealing a startlingly dark pair of shades. The glass, tinted so heavily red that it was almost completely opaque, threw back your startled reflection as the man tapped the ground once with his white cane. _Oh shit, he is_ literally _blind._ You flushed in embarrassment. “Right, uh, sorry.” He mumbled something under his breath and set off at a brisk pace down the street, the quiet _tap-tap tap-tap_ of his cane quickly fading as he drew away.  
  
You stared blankly after him. He’d seemed vaguely familiar, but that was no doubt because you’d spent a little too much time staring at the picture of his graduation you’d found online. There was no mistaking those glasses and that jaw, after all. “I do believe,” you grumbled to yourself sarcastically, “that you’ve made a great first impression on one half of your legal team. Fantastic.”  
  
As you climbed the stairs inside the building, you resolved to make a better impression with Mr. Nelson. You would _not_ stick your foot in your mouth like that again. And maybe, if things went well, Mr. Murdock wouldn’t put two-and-two together and realize you were both his client _and_ the woman he’d bumped into. He was blind, after all. How could he know?  
  
_I’m going to hell for that.  
  
_ On the second floor, you wandered down the hall until you found another helpful _Nelson and Murdock_ sign on a door, though this sign happened to be in cardboard. You tilted your head up and sighed, trying to soothe your apprehension. _So they don’t even have a real sign, and they’re above an old hardware store. John, you better not be fucking lying about this._ You listened for a moment, keying in on the murmur of voices, the clacking of fingers across a keyboard, and a strange, repetitive _‘uck… uck…’_ sound you couldn’t quite place. You shrugged, and knocked on the door. The clack of heels approaching on the other side filtered out into the hallway before the door swung open, thankfully _inwards_ this time and not into your face.  
  
A blonde woman, willowy and pale as fresh milk, smiled warmly at you and stepped back from the door so you could enter. “Welcome to Nelson and Murdock. My name is Karen. You’re Ms. Hinde, right?”  
  
“That’s me,” you confirmed, glancing around. For all that you’d had your reservations based on the outside of the building, the inside wasn’t as bad as you’d expected. Though the dull wooden floors may have been ancient and the green-grey walls in desperate need of a new coat of paint, the space was free of dust and clutter save for boxes of files piled up in the corners. There was an office to your left and right, and an old folding table and a few chairs directly ahead. All in all, it presumably looked like any other scrappy little start-up, save for one thing.  
  
“Why is there a chicken in the corner?” you asked in confusion. Said chicken clucked and flapped its wings inside its metal cage, the apparent source of the strange sounds you’d heard earlier.  
  
“Right, that,” Karen said slowly, shifting on her feet. “There is a very good reason for her. She’s-”  
  
The door to the office on your right opened and a grinning, round-faced man strode out. “Camilla’s our mascot, of course!” he said quickly. “Just probationary, to see how she does. But she’s already laid an egg, so things are looking up. Who can beat a mascot who lays eggs for you?” He reached out and took your hand for a warm shake. “Foggy Nelson, one half of Nelson and Murdock. And _you_ are Ms. Jane Hinde?”  
  
“That’s what it says on my business cards.”  
  
“I bet you get a lot of comments about that one, right?"  
  
You shook your head _._ “Fewer people than you’d think, actually.”  
  
His jaw dropped. “What? _No!_ ” He glanced at Karen and then back at you, throwing up his hands. “Such an untapped fountain of humour! That’s a name that deserves to be appreciated!”  
  
“What can I say?” you returned with a grin. “The genius of my parents will most likely continue to go unrecognized.”  
  
_They don’t hurt too much about it, though, since they’re not actually real…_ Not that you could tell him that.  
  
“Well, even if society has abandoned you, I assure you Nelson and Murdock will not,” he declared proudly. In her cage, Camilla squawked and Foggy’s eye twitched. “Why don’t we step into my office where it’s a little quieter?”  
  
You began to follow him. “May want to rethink the chicken mascot thing, by the way,” you couldn’t help but tease. “Cowardly animals wouldn’t be my first choice for encouraging, you know, bravery on the stand and all that.”  
  
“You know what, you’re absolutely right,” he agreed, turning to point at Camilla as you stepped into his office. “She’s right. You’re gonna have to go.” _Cluck!_ “I know! And the egg was great, I truly appreciate it. But we’re running a business here. We have to do what’s right for us.” _Cluck cluck!_ “Thank you for being so understanding. Karen will show you out.” _Cluck!  
  
_ As you settled into the creaky chair in front of the desk covered in various stacks of folders and paperwork, you caught his whisper to Karen:  
  
_“Did you call that rescue, Karen?”  
  
_ Were those dinosaurs on top of his computer?  
  
_“They were supposed to be here twenty minutes ago. I called again and they swore they’ll be here as soon as they can.”_ _  
  
_ You blinked. They _were_ dinosaurs: a whole tiny line of them, predators mingling with prey. You clucked your tongue and reached forward to rearrange them: carnivores at the back, herbivores in front, before settling back into your seat. _That’s better.  
  
“Good. And please remind Mr. Anastas that we don’t need any more chickens!”  
  
_ With that, Foggy shut the door and came to sit behind his desk. “I take it this has happened before?” you asked in good humour.  
  
He laughed. “You know, we try to help people even if they can’t pay, but sometimes they still want to with whatever they have. Usually it’s pie, and that’s great, I love pie! Not as much as money, but still. And yet sometimes you don’t get pies... You get chickens.”  
  
“Well, I can promise you I will in fact be paying with money and not chickens,” you assured him with a grin before glancing towards the door and changing the subject. “Is Mr. Murdock going to be joining us, or-”  
  
“He said he had an urgent meeting to get to, I’m afraid. But he’ll be here next time.”  
  
“I think I bumped into him downstairs,” you admitted. “He was the-”  
  
“The blind guy?” There was an edge to Foggy’s voice, just barely detectable under the friendly smile and the shaggy hair. _Defensive about working with a blind man?  
  
_ “I was going to say, ‘the guy with the cool glasses in a hurry’, actually.”  
  
“Oh,” he said, relaxing a little before flashing you a genuine smile. “Kudos on not just calling him ‘the blind lawyer’. Yeah, that was him.” _Not defensive,_ you realized _. Protective._ “Well, like I said, he’ll be back. If things work out, we’ll both be working on your case. Speaking of which, let’s get to it.” He leaned forward in his chair, and the sudden gleam in his eye surprised you.  
  
_Well, I did want some sharks of my own. At least this one’s friendlier._

 

-x-

 

Mr. Murdock did not, in fact, show up before it was time for you to leave, but Foggy assured you they’d look over your case together and call you by next week. You left feeling lighter than you had when you’d walked in, a weight off your shoulders now that you had your own dog in the legal fight.  
  
The Man in Black also did not make an appearance that evening, which was probably for the best, since he would’ve asked about any of your latest cases. Then you’d have had to lie, and he _always_ knew when you were lying. Then he might think something was wrong and follow you. You couldn’t have that; you needed to keep the vigilante with anger issues away from your biggest paycheck in months, thank you.  
  
Surprisingly, by the time you arrived at work the next morning at ten-till-eight, the skittish courier was already pacing in the reception area. After hasty confirmation via your license, you signed his electronic pad and took the small case wrapped in black paper down to your office. The box wasn’t overly large, perhaps four by four inches, and there wasn’t much weight to it. You held it up to your ear as you sat in your chair, ears picking up a faint ticking. You doubted your client would have gone to all this trouble only to deliver you a bomb, so you were placing your money on it being a watch. You typed up a few quick notes about the package before emailing them to Maya. It was part of the system the two of you had come up with in case something happened to either of you and you’d already sent her copies of the contract. Only after you’d sent your email did you unwrap the package.  
  
As you’d guessed, it was a watch, and a fine one at that, laying perfectly positioned against black fabric. You let out a low whistle, lifting it from the box and holding it up to the light. A Santos, if you weren’t mistaken, which meant you were holding a watch worth at least several thousand dollars in your hands, if not more. _Better not drop this._ Out of curiosity, you flipped it over to the back, and found an engraving: _‘To my most loyal friend. Vincit qui patitur. -W’  
  
_ With the clock ticking, no pun intended, you couldn’t afford to waste more time examining the watch, so you swiveled to your window and opened up your mind. White light blazed, and then your vision cleared. You glanced down at the watch and smiled at the blue thread that shot out from its face, piercing the glass of your windowpane and disappearing in the buildings to your northeast.  
  
You tugged on your coat, and carefully placed the watch back in its box—you didn’t need it now that your third eye was open and you had singled out your thread. The box you slipped into the large inner coat pocket, on the opposite side from your knife sheath. With that done, you left your office, stopping only to fill a paper cup with some coffee from the kitchenette down the hall. Hopefully this wouldn’t take long.  
  
The city was abuzz with activity as you stepped out of your building, a consequence of the time. People and their brilliant threads streamed by on their way to work: a living, breathing sea of flesh and cloth and flashing colors that threatened you with a migraine. _This_ was why you liked working at night. There were always people around in New York City, but it was far easier to move and follow an individual thread when it wasn’t rush hour. You slipped on your sunglasses to hide your gaze, reminded yourself of the big, fat reward on the other side, and waded determinedly into the crowd that ebbed and flowed with the cars and streetlights in a beating pulse all its own.  
  
You could really only keep track of the thread for a few feet in front of you before it disappeared into the seething mass of bodies, but you stuck to it as best you could, ignoring the grunts and cursing whenever you occasionally bumped into someone and the angry screech of car horns as you dodged between vehicles.  You’d gotten good at tracking, and this was a dance you knew well. You’d even mastered the art of following a trail without catching sight of your own threads. That was an act of vital importance.  
  
The crowds finally began to die down around nine. You stopped at a bakery for a doughnut and kept your eyes downcast to avoid seeing the threads of the baker before continuing on your way, munching on sticky-sweet glazing and warm bread touched with cinnamon as you walked. No time to stop and eat on this job _._ Your legs carried you easily along at a steady, ground-eating pace you’d perfected. If you needed to, you could walk for miles this way without stopping. You already knew your target wasn’t outside the city, where he would have been beyond your purview. The thread was slowly rising, as if you were winding in slack on a fishing line. That meant you were getting closer. You licked your fingers and squinted at your surroundings. _Heading towards another industrial area. Why do these people always hide in warehouses?_ You would have felt better with the so-called Devil of Hell’s Kitchen watching your back.   
  
You snorted to yourself in disgust. He’d made you lazy. You’d handled this kind of thing _long_ before him, and you would do so after. Yes, after, because you were _still_ going to leave this city, and you would not feel one iota of sadness about doing so. You would not miss the Man in Black at all, no sir.  
  
_Fucking liar. You need to make your money and get out of New York before you get attached.  
  
_ It only took another hour before you found the building your target was hidden in. It looked to be a small storage depot, tucked away and concealed amongst its loftier, hulking neighbors. It was here your movements gained an extra layer of caution. If something were to go wrong, it would be on your entry. So instead of stopping, you walked right past, using your sunglasses to hide the way you examined the building and the threads that escaped its walls. There was only one occupant, based on the threads and their angles. And of those threads there were few: two blazing scarlets, one thick and strong, the other thin and delicate; a few blues, one of which connected to the watch in your pocket; and three oranges that sparkled with a golden-peach sheen, closer to yellow than red. _Interesting._ Most people had dozens of threads, and it was only with focus that you could separate them into individual strands. The fact that you could so easily divine these specific threads meant you were dealing with someone who allowed himself _very_ few connections. On that, you could relate, though you had a feeling he was a bit more successful at it.  
  
You made a loop of the block, noting the cameras set up on some of the warehouse exteriors. These you avoided, making use of blind spots and the delivery trucks parked along the busy street. Once or twice you got the feeling you were being watched and it raised the hairs on the back of your neck. You toyed with your phone in your pocket as you circled back around, playing with the idea of calling the cops. You curled a lip. And what were you supposed to say? _‘Hey officer, I’m just here in a place I have no business in, and I feel like someone’s spying on me. Help a girl out?’  
  
_ It was probably just someone wondering what the fuck you were doing here. You needed to get off the street. And the obvious answer was…  
  
You glanced back over your shoulder and upon confirming no one was behind you, you sauntered casually up to the front door of the storage depot as if you owned the place. In your experience, when it was daylight it was best to act as if you belonged and scowl at anyone who wondered otherwise. There was always a refuge in audacity.  
  
You used your body to hide your actions as you withdrew your black gloves and pulled them on. This place was _not_ some abandoned building in the middle of nowhere, and you’d hate to get slapped with a charge due to some fingerprints if it all went sideways. That done, you carefully tested the front doorknob and to your surprise found it unlocked. You frowned, your growing suspicion leaving a knot in your stomach. Who just left their warehouse door unlocked in New York City? The threads inside hadn’t moved as best you could tell, and the odds of your target simply sitting there while you set off a booby trap were quite low, so you hesitantly cracked the door and listened. When nothing exploded, you nudged the door open farther, just enough to slip into the darkness inside. You shut the door quietly behind you, waiting for your eyes to adjust and show you something other than black ink and a blue thread.  
  
Gradually, the room took shape amidst shafts of sunlight leaking in from the high windows. You were surrounded by large boxes and wooden crates in various states. Straw poked out of the crates that were open, padding ancient vases and time-worn statues faded by wind and sand. You caught the tantalizing gleam of gold inside one box, its top just barely cracked wide enough to offer a hint of what lay within. Against one wall, the corner of a painting framed in silver lay visible behind a white cloth draped over it.  
  
You scratched the back of your neck. “And this door was unlocked?” you muttered. Either someone was going to be fired, or someone was planning to come into a lot of insurance money down the line. And yet none of this had anything to do with you. Rule number one was _do not ask questions_ , no matter what weird shit you witnessed. An unlocked storage depot full of priceless artifacts certainly qualified as strange, but you hadn’t grown your business by being nosy or touching things that didn’t belong to you. Your plausible deniability was one of the things they paid you for. Also, you’d seen Aladdin. You were well aware of what happened to people who got greedy, and while there may not be a giant sand tiger about to eat you, a bullet would leave you just as dead. So instead of snooping, instead of so much as _glancing_ into the crates, you bypassed the riches and crept towards the nexus of the threads.  
  
There was a wooden door at the other end of the room, set into the cement wall. Something told you this one would be unlocked, too, and you steeled yourself before pressing it open.  
  
You weren’t sure what you were expecting to see on the other side, but what you _weren’t_ expecting was your client sitting in a room otherwise empty save for a wooden table and the cozy red armchair in which he sat. He finished the process of setting down his book on the table and held up a stopwatch. “I have to say, I’m impressed. Two hours and seventeen minutes during rush hour, and all with nothing but my watch.”  
  
As you hastily shut down your third eye, somewhere in the back of your mind a lightbulb went off. “You were testing me,” you realized out loud, tilting your head. It made sense in a way. Most of the rich didn’t get that way by being stupid or gullible. He, or perhaps his boss, wanted to see your talent for themselves first. You couldn’t work up the energy to be angry about it. _That_ would happen only if you didn’t get paid. “Seeing how fast I could find you?”  
  
“Among other things. My watch?” You drew the box from your pocket and moved closer, handing it off to him. He removed his watch from the box and gave it a brief once-over before reattaching it to his wrist. “My employer will be pleased with the results. Your check, as promised.” It was his turn to hand you an item as he stood, and you glanced at the check before slipping it into your pocket. That was, indeed, _more_ than enough to pay off your bills and leave extra.  
  
“So that’s it, then?” You gestured towards him before folding your arms.  
  
“For now. We’ll most likely have more jobs for you in the future, should you wish to continue working with us.”  
  
“All this,” you waved a hand about the room, managing to encompass all the effort that had been put into your test, “just to let me walk if I want?”  
  
“Of course. It would hardly be a beneficial business relationship should you be unwilling. We would continue to follow the rules set forth in your contracts, provide you with bonuses for quick work. And as long as you met your end of the bargain, as you do for any other client, I see no reason why any of that should change.”  
  
You sucked on your tongue as you considered him, the check burning a warm weight against your chest. It sounded too good to be true and yet, as long as they followed the contract, what risk was there really to you?  
  
Finally, slowly, you nodded. “You’ll have to go through the paperwork same as any other regular client for each contract, but I’m not adverse to it.”  
  
“I had a feeling you’d agree,” he said with a pleasant smile, offering you a hand to shake. “There’s a car waiting out front. The driver can take you back to your office, or your home, if you’d like. We’ll be in touch when we have another job for you.”  
  
You nodded, stuck your hands in your pockets and headed for the door. You paused at the threshold and called out, without looking over your shoulder, “you mind if I call you Mr. Winter?”  
  
“Any particular reason?” By the sound of his voice, he hadn’t moved away yet. It wouldn’t have surprised you if he’d sat back down to finish his chapter.  
  
You shook your head. “I don’t expect to get your real name, so this is mostly so I have something to call you in my client list. And it fits well enough.”  
  
You waited as he considered it. He’d been polite enough to wait for you to read through the forms, after all. “It’s acceptable,” he said at last with a chuckle.  
  
“Well then, have a good day, Mr. Winter.”  
  
“And you, Ms. Hinde.”

 

-x-

 

Weeks went by. You handled only two jobs for Mr. Winter in between your other clients, but you weren’t complaining. Those checks paid your bills, including your legal fees, for which Foggy was incredibly grateful. You got the feeling receiving pies instead of money was more of a regular occurrence than he’d ever admit to. And Mr. Murdock… continued to be absent. It was the strangest thing, and it got stranger with each visit. There was always something that had pulled him away: a family emergency, a meeting with another client, something in his apartment caught fire. He wouldn’t even speak to you on the phone.  
  
_“Hello?” you said awkwardly into the silence. The phone had given its tell-tale click, so you knew someone had picked up. “Anyone there?”_ _  
  
_ Click!  
  
_You blinked at the phone. Had they just… hung up on you? You dialed back, brow furrowed in annoyance. You and Karen got along just fine, so you had a hard time believing she’d drop you like that.  
  
This time when the phone picked up, you could hear scuffling and whispers as two people hissed back and forth and seemingly fought over the phone.  
  
“-ucking hang up on clients, Matt!”  
  
“Hello?” you tried again.  
  
“Ms. Hinde!” That was definitely Foggy. “Hi, sorry about that. That was-“  
  
“Did someone hang up on me?” you said slowly.  
  
“NO! No no no, of course not! Just a joke, one of our other clients playing a prank. Ha! Why would _ anyone _hang up on our_ best client _?! That would be crazy, wouldn’t it?” The last two words were close to a shout and muffled by what must have been a hand over the mouthpiece. “Now, how can we help you?”_ _  
  
_ And then, just when you’d think you caught him…  
  
_“Excellent! You’re early!” Foggy crowed, ushering you in.  
  
“Yeah, better than late, right? I figured you guys wouldn’t mind.”  
  
“Of course not, and as a matter of fact,” Foggy grinned, leading you not to his office on the right, but the one on your left that belonged to the mysterious Matthew Murdock, “you’ve arrived at a most fortunate time. My partner is actually in his office, so you can finally meet him and know that I’m not a crazy person using two names to operate a law office. He’s right in-what the FUCK?!”  
  
You glanced around the  office. It was neat and tidy, stacks of paperwork neatly organized around a laptop. It was also very much empty. Against the far wall, the breeze rustled against blinds drawn up above the open windows. “Did Mr. Murdock leap out the window rather than speak to me?”  
  
“He’s BLIND! He can’t-he wouldn’t… Karen!”  
  
_ That had all been weird enough, but even the Man in Black seemed completely unruffled by Matt Murdock’s behavior.  
  
_“One of those lawyers you sent me to. He’s avoiding me.” You stroked the silver tabby cat on your lap as you leaned back against the brick wall bordering the rooftop. She was one of the few targets who seemed to enjoy your presence. “Pretty sure he hates me, actually, which is strange since I only ever saw him once. And that was for three seconds as he was leaving.”  
  
“What makes you say he hates you?” he asked distantly, kneeling and waggling his fingers to lure the cat over. She obliged, stepping primly off your legs and sauntering with a curled tail over to the masked man, arching her back so he could scratch along her spine. “You don’t think he’s just busy?”  
  
“He leapt out a fucking window to avoid me, John,” you said flatly. “Pretty sure we’re past ‘just busy’. You’re both catholic. Could you maybe, I don’t know… talk to him? Tell him I’m not Satan-incarnate there to devour his soul?”  
  
“I’ll see what I can do, but the Catholicism can only carry me so far.”  
  
“True. The good lawyer may have a problem with the implications of the vigilante thing. Maybe leave the Catholicism out, now that I think about it.”  
  
_ And yet still you carried on, meeting after meeting, just you and Foggy. You deftly dodged his questions about your past, and he gamely worked to trip up every legal effort to pry information from you. You were starting to suspect that you would never meet the elusive Mr. Murdock. Maybe that was alright; you and Foggy were doing pretty well on your own. And then your coffeemaker broke.  
  
It was sheer chance really, a unfortunate stroke of luck. With the appliance in your apartment having given up the ghost and a meeting at _Nelson and Murdock_ leaving you without time to run out for a new one, you decided to make a quick stop at the coffee shop just down the street from their office. Foggy had raved about it once or twice, so it made sense to just grab a coffee there.  
  
You were near comatose without coffee in the morning, but just the scent of it wafting past you as you approached had your senses perking up in anticipation. You picked up your pace. _Coffee coffee coffee coffee!_ A steady flow of people streamed in and out of the shop, clutching their fresh nirvana in paper cups and to-go mugs. The shop looked busy, and it was probably noisy too, but if this many people were there, it had to be worth it. That didn’t mean you didn’t grumble internally about the line as you paused at the door, letting out a sudden burst of people, before dragging your sorry, uncaffeinated hide inside.  
  
Two suited men were in line in front of you, one of whom slowly hunched his shoulders up as you came to stand behind them. _Dude must need coffee even more than me._ You blew out a sigh, and poked your head around the pair in front of you to blearily count how many people stood between you and the machines that made your ambrosia.  
  
“Jane?"  
  
You swung your head, glancing up. “Foggy?”  
  
_How did I not notice this was Foggy? Fucking coffee, need it now!  
  
_ He grinned a wide, beaming smile that edged on mischievous as he clapped you on the shoulder. “I had no idea I’d find you here.” The man with the hunched shoulders had turned away, and Foggy’s hand clamped down on his jacket sleeve with a vice-like grip. “ _Matthew_ ,” Foggy said through grit teeth, his cheerful tone in no way diminishing the steel in his voice. “ _This_ is that _lovely client_ that I’ve told you so much about! The one who pays us in _money_ and not _chickens._ Turn around and say hello!”  
  
Clearly realizing he now had no escape, Matthew Murdock blew out a breath and slowly spun to face you, looking for all the world like a coyote contemplating self-imposed amputation. _Why does he act like this is going to be so awful?_ Your heart skipped a beat, your nerves shot. What the hell had you done to this guy to make dealing with you such a horrible proposition? It couldn’t have been bumping into him, could it? The treatment stung you, in the way all rejection did.  
  
Finally, you got your first good look at him. Those dark red shades of his obscured his eyes easily, but they did nothing to hide the attractiveness of the rest of his face: the stubble on his strong jaw, the pretty mouth. He wore his modest grey suit well, surprisingly lean and fit beneath it. _Not bad for a dick.  
  
_ His hands tightened momentarily on his white cane and you belatedly realized you’d been standing there saying nothing. Foggy shot glances hopefully back and forth between you, clearly eager for you two to get along. “Jane Hinde. I heard you’ve been working on my case, but we haven’t met yet. I’m,” you cleared your throat, “I’m going to stick out my hand now to shake if that’s alright?” You tentatively offered your hand. There was a thought scratching at your brain the longer you stared at him, but you couldn’t quite pin it down.  
  
“Her right hand is about six inches in front of you,” Foggy said helpfully. Matt shifted on his feet, licked his lips as if unsure. You were starting to feel awkward holding out your hand, and behind that, angry. _Fuck him. I’ve done shit all and he’s treating me this way?_ Foggy laughed nervously. “Ha, he’s just nervous sometimes when meeting new people outside the practice. He will of course shake your hand _any second now._ ”  
  
At the sharp comment, Matt seemed to make a decision, clearing his throat and reaching out for your hand to shake. He found it unerringly, callused palm sliding against yours as he smiled. “Matt Murdock. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you.”  
  
At the sound of his voice, the scratching in your mind became a clawing, before the thought finally burst from the earth of your subconscious and began the process of redecorating your brain using a sledgehammer.  
  
_I know that voice._ You knew that low timbre, the softness with which he spoke, and the way each consonant slipped past his lips; the same lips you’d stared at maybe a touch too often since you couldn’t see his eyes.  
  
Your brain frantically began to assemble the clues you’d missed until now.  
  
Matt Murdock avoiding you, because you’d recognize his voice after the time spent with him. Recognize injuries he sometimes gained while with you.  
  
The business cards given to you by the Man in the Mask. Directing James and yourself towards the firm. _‘You can trust them.’_ He would know, wouldn’t he?  
  
John, the Man in Black, was _one of your own fucking lawyers.  
  
_ Foggy’s smile faltered, and his gaze turned nervous as you stood frozen in front of Matt. “I just forgot,” you said suddenly, “I have a thing at work. I need to reschedule my appointment.” You backed away, fumbling your way out of the shop. This was too much, you needed… you needed space to think, to process. “Sorry, Foggy, have a good day!”  
  
Back in the shop, Foggy slowly turned to face Matt. Matt nodded. “That went well.  
  
“Fix this, Murdock!” Foggy thundered, ignoring the startled stares from the other patrons. “By god, Matthew Murdock, you need to fix this!”  
  
“How do you know I’m the one who broke it?”  
  
“I don’t know.” He threw up his hands. “I don’t care! She pays us with _money_ , Matt! Actual money! She doesn’t pay us in pie!” He poked Matt in the chest determinedly. “And I don’t know if you know this, but _New York City does not accept pies or chickens as payment on our office!”  
  
_ Matt chuckled nervously, nudging Foggy’s hand away. “Alright. Consider me swayed, Counselor. I’ll do my best.”  
  
“Good,” Foggy sniffed, patting Matt on the shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve accepted my wisdom. Now, you want mocha today? I’m feeling mocha. Which is great, cause I may be homeless now without her, and that means I’ll never be able to afford mocha again.”

 

-x-

 

You’d gone back to work, but you hadn’t gotten much done. Fortunately all you’d had to do was paperwork. You were, in a word, distracted.  
  
Was he really blind? Had he lied to you about his senses? Did his business partner know? Did Karen? Was this all just an incredibly convoluted scheme to drive business to his new firm?  
  
The thoughts dogged you like hungry strays all day long as you examined every angle, every interaction with him you could remember. Those thoughts followed you on your walk home, up the stairs, and into your apartment. They curled up inside your mind as you grabbed a beer from your fridge and settled in to drink and ponder. They quieted when you heard the Man in Black’s— _no, Matt’s_ —knock at your door. It was the same pattern you’d become so familiar with.  
  
_Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.  
  
_ You warily eyed the front door from your spot on the couch, and slowly took another sip of your beer. Part of you wondered why he didn’t use the window. Did it mean something that he was coming to you as Matt and not the Man in Black?  
  
_“_ I know you’re there, Jane.”  
  
_Of course you do, you bastard,_ you thought dryly. _At least you weren’t lying about that.  
  
_ “Can I come in? Please? We need to talk.”  
  
You sighed, and took another swig before answering. “Door’s open.” An unlocked door wasn’t the safest idea in New York City but you’d been expecting him to show and hadn’t seen the point in locking the door when you were there to watch it.  
  
The door nudged open and Matt entered slowly, turning to lock the door behind him before stepping further into your apartment, not even faltering as he stepped over the shoes you’d kicked off and left just inside.  
  
The pillow you chucked at him plopped against his head and fell to the ground. He stared at you with an arched brow. “Did you just throw a pillow at blind man?”  
  
“Yes, I did,” you said without a touch of shame, raising your beer at him. “Are you telling me you couldn't dodge it with your ninja skills? And how do I even know you’re really blind? You’re lucky I didn’t throw something heavier as a test.”  
  
“I could have caught it but I let you have that one for free since it was a pillow,” he chuckled, making his way over towards where you sat. You’d claimed the sofa for yourself and he gave you your space, stopping in front of the arm chair that sat catty corner to the couch. “I think you’ve earned it. As for whether I’m really blind… it’s complicated. The real mystery is why you’re not angry. May I sit?”  
  
“Yeah, go ahead.” You narrowed your eyes as he nodded and settled into your arm chair. Instead of relaxing, he leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees.  “And how do you know I’m not angry?”  
  
“Your heart rate,” he said quietly. ¨It’s calm, not racing like it would if you were furious with me. Your skin didn't flush when you heard my voice, either. You’re not angry at all. Suspicious maybe, but not angry.”  
  
“Hmph,” you grunted. He was right. You weren't angry. Hell, _you_ hadn’t told him who you really were. You couldn’t blame the guy for keeping that secret when you’d only known each other for a few months. Still, it didn’t mean you were without questions. “Are you really blind?”  
  
“Yes. The… chemicals I told you about, the ones the spilled on me? It was my eyes they hit. And I’ve never once claimed I wasn’t blind.” It was true; you’d reviewed your interactions, your conversations, and had realized already that he’d never once mentioned something’s color, had never mentioned anything to do with vision when discussing his abilities.  
  
“But you can move like you can see,” you said, toying with the bottle in your hands.  
  
“In a manner of speaking.” The explanation he launched into, about what he could ‘see’ and vague mentions of being trained, made things a little more clear, knowing what you did about his enhanced senses. It reminded you of a documentary on whales diving deep into the lightless depths of the ocean, how their sonar could help form a mental map of their surroundings. Matt’s senses apparently worked the same way, affording him a comprehensive picture of the environment and making up for what his eyes could no longer tell him. And it was, it seemed, a far _better_ map than what a working pair of eyes would have given him.  
  
“Does your partner know?” you asked curiously. You’d been drawn into the story despite your best efforts, and had long since given up your efforts to appear angry. You’d also unknowingly scooted across the couch so you were closer, leaning forward in your interest.  
  
“No, he doesn’t. Very few people do.”  
  
You reached out to pat his hand, making him smile. “Well, I’m honored to be a member of such an exclusive club.”  
  
“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, when I directed you to the firm,” he said, hand flipping up to grasp your fingers. He unconsciously brushed his thumb over your knuckles in a soothing gesture. “But at first I didn’t know if I could trust you, and after that, it just wasn’t-"  
  
“Safe?” you finished. At his nod, you waved him off. “No, don’t feel sorry. I mean, I get it. We’ve only known each other, what, a couple months? I don’t blame you for being cautious. Can’t say I’d have told you, either. At least I know I can trust both my lawyers now.”  
  
He chuckled, letting go of your hand and settling back into his seat. Your skin felt strangely cold without that contact. _How warm is he for me to feel that cold?_ “I promise, we’ll do the best we can. Most of it’s just legal scare tactics right now. They’re testing the waters. We’ll take care of it, though. You don’t have anything to worry about.”  
  
You shook your head, taking another sip of your beer. It was a strange feeling, to be sitting here with Matt. He both felt like someone you already knew, thanks to your time with the Man in Black, and like someone completely different. Someone new. It threw you off balance, left you on unstable ground.  
  
“What are you thinking?” he asked kindly, picking up on your straying thoughts.  
  
“Just reconciling these two people I thought were separate,” you admit, biting your lip. “You’re different than when you’re in the black suit, but also not different, if that makes sense.”  
  
“I promise,” he assured you, “I’m still me. Still the man you talk to on rooftops. Just in my work clothes, is all. You _had_ to know that wasn’t my full-time job.”  
  
You snorted out a laugh into your beer bottle, making him grin. The tension broken, you fully relaxed. “I mean, I knew that, but I didn’t think you occupied both sides of the system. How was I supposed to know? Alright, you know what?” You set down your bottle. “We’re going to try this again.”  
  
“What? Drinking? I haven’t noticed you having any problems so far, but then again, I am blind.”  
  
“I am in fact doing an _excellent_ job so far,” you pointed out, turning so you were facing him straight on. “But that’s not what I meant. We’re going to do this introduction thing again now that we’ve got all our cards on the table. You know my powers, I know yours, we know each other’s day jobs. Etcetera. Let’s do this right.”  
  
He nodded in agreement and, to your surprise, reached up and removed his glasses and set them on your coffee table. Warm brown eyes shifted their focus to your mouth as you sucked in a short breath, fascinated by the play of color. You’d never seen his eyes until now, never been able to examine the tiny laugh lines at the corners as he smiled at you or the threads of storm grey shot through the iris. Something told you it was not a common occurrence for him to allow someone to see his eyes. There was an intimacy to the act, a show of trust that warmed you, left your breath shaky as it escaped your lungs.  
  
You held out your hand to him for the second time that day. Like before, his hand slid into yours, skin rasping against skin. There was no shake this time, your hands simply clasping as you watched him.  
  
“Matthew Murdock,” he said quietly.  
  
_He’s trusted me, so…_ You licked your lips, and murmured your real name.  
  
His surprised smile lit up the room, and you grinned back. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said. “Truly.”  
  
With that, you released hands, and you picked up your beer bottle. “So… jumping out a window? Really?”  
  
“I couldn’t help but panic. Psychics are just so intimidating to a guy with secrets.”  
  
“Shut up.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> -Yes, 'At Fault' divorce is a thing. Don't cheat on your spouse in New York. #researchyo (Disclaimer: don't cheat on anyone, not just in NY. Don't be a dick)  
> -The place they filmed the outside of the Nelson and Murdock offices really is next to a hardware store. Classy, guys.  
> -Fuck Charlie Cox's eyes, those are too beautiful to be human.  
> -The timeline is a little vague, but that's because there's a few inconsistencies in the canon timeline. I chose to give Nelson and Murdock a few months to gain some clients, so that it was less out of place when Foggy points out their, er, clients in episode two to Karen (after telling Karen earlier they have no clients).  
> -New players on the field!  
> -I want them to kiss like now. Think again, impatient ID part of my brain! We're doing a fucking slow burn this time.


	3. Dogs and Beds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately for you, your hunt for a missing dog gets you into some hot water. Fortunately for you, the Devil of Hell's Kitchen was along for the ride today. 
> 
> You also discover the Devil happens to be both a mother hen and a cuddler. Who knew?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for attempted sexual assault in this chapter, my dears, so please practice caution! It's only implied but it's there. 
> 
> Happy New Year! Let's throw confetti and pretend I have a consistent schedule!

“You’re sure the food will work?” Matt asked you skeptically. He leaned against the wall beside the door, his arms crossed. His casual stance and the distracted cock of his head may have deceived those unfamiliar with him, but you knew the truth: he was listening carefully for potential witnesses to your attempted break-in, or for any other crime being committed nearby. This wasn’t exactly the nicest neighborhood after all. “His heart is racing. Doesn’t seem like he’d be interested.”

“The stomach method is tried and true, my friend,” you said cheerfully as you gingerly picked the lock, keeping yourself concealed in the shadows provided by the ramshackle porch roof. Your target had clearly used the broken bottom segment of the window beside the door, but you weren’t sure you could squeeze through without slicing yourself to ribbons. At least someone had been polite and swept the glass away. “Even if it takes a little while, they always give in eventually. Ah! There we go.” You shouldered the wooden door open with a grunt, sending small flakes of weathered blue paint floating towards the ground like snowfall. You couldn’t help but wince at the screech of rusted hinges, a bell over the door chiming in a puff of dust.

The opened door revealed a darkened, debris-filled space stretching out in front of you. The only other door lay at the far end of the room, ajar and exposing nothing but yet more pitch-black murk. The legacy of the last occupant was all around: mouldering cardboard boxes packed full of pipes and faucets, sheet-covered spinning chairs lined up before grimy, cracked mirrors too stained to throw out even a semblance of a reflection. There was a smattering of shoe and paw-prints tracked into the layers of dust, revealing the long-defunct salon wasn’t entirely empty of activity, though it was vacant enough for now. You put away your lockpicks and withdrew your flashlight, clicking it on and swinging it around. “Still clear?”

“You’re good,” he said. You stepped through the doorway, Matt following closely and shutting the door behind you with another deceptively cheerful jingle. “Back storeroom, no other exit. He knows we’re here. He’s scared.”

You took a few steps across the floor, turned to face Matt, and lowered yourself down to sit cross legged. You set your flashlight down, positioning it upright as a makeshift lamp. The amount of light it afforded you was minuscule but effective enough.

“What are you doing?”

“Block the window, would you?” You drew a crinkled paper bag from your pocket as Matt moved to comply, positioning a stack of boxes in front of the window to block the gaping hole in the shattered glass. You drew your knife and sliced open the strings tying the bag shut before returning the blade to your jacket sheath. Brown paper rustled under your fingers as you opened the bag, and soon the rich smell of fresh roast chicken reached your nostrils, covering the copper tang of rust and stale air. You tore off a shred of meat and without looking back tossed it over your shoulder in the direction of the storeroom door. You whistled a few notes, keeping your posture relaxed and nonthreatening. “Got some fresh chicken here, Sherwood.”

You received no response, but you hadn’t expected one, not immediately. You tossed another piece.

“He smells it, even if he’s not moving,” Matt informed you, settling back against wall. Against the faded yellow paint, he was a lean, dangerous line of black that your eye couldn’t help but be drawn to. Here amidst the time-ravaged ruins of an abandoned building, he seemed completely at ease, not one mark of apprehension visible in his body language as he tipped his head back.

“I told you. He’s probably hungry.”

“You have a lot of experience with dogs?” He rolled his shoulders as you shrugged.

“Usually it’s cats. Dogs are much more likely to wander up to someone and show off their license tags and get brought home before I’m called. Cats, not so much.” You tended to have far greater luck luring a dog to your side than a cat. Dogs seemed to naturally seek friendly humans out when frightened, while cats usually sought escape from anyone on two legs. It always made for an interesting experience. You gave a dismissive wave of your hand. “The whole pet thing, though, yeah. Cats, dogs, birds. God, fucking _birds!_ Those are a nightmare. Pets are a good fifty-five percent of my business.”

“And they all have… red lines?”

You shook your head. “Dogs are likely to have red. Cats are usually more selective. Birds, reptiles, that’s a toss up depending on species.”

“How do you not get their threads mixed up with your own when tracking?” he asked. At your hesitation, he added kindly, “you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”

 _Ah, now that’s where it gets complicated,_ you thought as you leaned your head back to stare at the warped, grungy ceiling tiles. How to explain? It was no use lying. If you were going to lie, you may as well tell him you wouldn’t talk about it for all the good it would do you. He’d probably let it go; he’d never once shown any inclination to press where you were uncomfortable. And yet… he was the _Man in the Mask,_ and your life—along with your safety as you wandered the city at night—had improved greatly with his presence. He deserved your trust.

He waited patiently, giving you time and quiet to ponder over which direction you wanted to steer the conversation. He straightened when you finally answered, “the trick is, I don’t actually look at my own threads. When I’m following one, I sort of draw it up,” you made a gesture as if hooking and lifting a string up from the floor, “above the others. Most rest on the ground if there’s any distance between the two ends. Makes it easier to narrow in on what I’m looking at. So my threads… I keep those down, under everything else.”

“Seems like it would be nice to know about your own relationships,” he mused thoughtfully. “I’m assuming there’s a reason you don’t look.”

You hummed an affirmative. “I told you before about the colors, right?” At his nod, you continued speaking as you tossed another piece of warm chicken over your shoulder. “Yellow, orange, red. Levels of… attachment, affection, love, whatever you want to call it.” You’d always been at a loss as to how to define it. In this way, the English language seemed woefully inefficient in conveying the exact emotion you felt when touching your finger to a scarlet thread. It required a word that represented both many feelings, and just one that encompassed all the shades of warmth possible between two individuals. “It’s a connection between friends, family, lovers, beloved pets. Both parties need to care strongly for a red thread to form, this is true. For pets like Sherwood, that’s _all_ you need. But humans need one other thing, too.”

“And what’s that?”

You clucked your tongue at the _click-click-click_ of Sherwood’s nails coming from the open doorway behind you. Your noise prompted a half-hearted growl. “Awareness,” you said. At Matt’s puzzled silence, you elaborated. “Each person needs to know they care about the other. No recognition, no red thread.” That emotional insight, as best you could tell, was not just important but a necessity. Anything short of full understanding left one solidly in orange.

“So as long as you don’t look—“

“And remain firmly in denial of any strong emotional connection with someone,” you interrupted. “Denial is super important.”

“—You won’t develop any red threads,” he finished. Something about his tone was odd, almost unhappy as he shook his head, his jaw clenching. “Why would you want to deny yourself that connection to someone else?”

You cringed at what you assumed was his disbelief. You fiddled with a corner of the paper bag. “If I have a red thread connected to someone, that person can be used to find me. Someone finds me, they… use me. There’s a lot of money to be made hunting down people who don’t want to be found, as you can imagine.” The memories left a sour, acrid taste on your tongue. You’d left before it had gotten too bad, but you’d seen what was in your future if you’d stayed. You’d have been chained, muzzled, leashed: a dog on a chain, set loose only to run down game before you were locked back in your cage. “So I don’t really make many friends. Not serious ones, anyway. No parties, no dates. Not looking at my threads, that’s just my last line of defense.”

“There has to be someone you can safely connect with,” he objected, gesturing sharply. “Old friends, family.”

You glanced down at the floor and picked at a loose thread from your jeans that you’d missed earlier. “I burned as many bridges as I could,” you said, keeping your voice level. Something about Matt’s easy, sympathetic nature made this subject easier to talk about. Or maybe it was the time and distance that softened the edges of memory and soothed the sting of old hurt. “Family, you know how to hurt them. Good friends, too. You know their weak spots. You do it right, you can drive that thread from red to green in just a few hours.” You snapped your fingers. Green, the lonely color of unrequited affection, was a color most would have wanted to remove from themselves if they could. But for you, it had been what you’d desired. You glanced back up, knowing he would sense your eyes on him. You let a hard edge creep into your voice. “It took me a bit longer than a few days but they’re safer now. No one can use them to find me, so there’s no reason to hurt them.”

You were met with silence.  His hands tightened into fists, but the downward turn of his mouth spoke of another emotion you couldn’t quite read. _So hard when I can’t see his eyes._ At best guess, he was _furious_ —teeth grinding, posture stiff and hard—that someone had forced you into this pattern, or perhaps he was angry that you’d given in to fear and denied yourself. You’d felt similarly over the years, though you tried to maintain a sort of pragmatic acceptance about it. Most of the time that worked, allowing you to remain distant and disconnected despite repeated overtures of friendship and romance from others. Sometimes, however, people like Matt stirred the waters and left you longing for connection and enraged that you couldn’t take the offered hand. You tugged again at the thread in your jeans and tossed more chicken over your shoulder. The soft whisper of paw pads and quiet snuffling told you Sherwood’s hunger had finally won out. “That seems like a lonely way to live,” he said finally. You shouldn’t have been surprised he understood.

“I guess,” you admitted, slowly swiveling on the ground so that you were half-turned away from him. You wanted to keep Sherwood in your view now that he’d finally stepped out from the back room. In the dim light of your flashlight, you could make the dog out. Around forty pounds, his thick, shaggy grey-and-black coat and a plumed tail that curved up over his back made him a startling sight in the dimness. “But I don’t have another option. The scientists who studied me as a kid, or some of the guys I did jobs for, if they find a red thread to track me, they won’t let it go. And besides,” it was time to redirect the conversation away from yourself, “it can’t be much different for you, right? You’ve got ways of protecting yourself. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”

Sherwood inched his way closer, lured by the bag of chicken in your hands and the scent wafting towards him. You tossed a few more pieces, gradually winding in the distance. You had a leash in your pocket but you weren’t going to loop him until you had gained some of his trust. He was supposedly a friendly animal when in his own home, but he was understandably skittish. It did to remember that even the most well-mannered dog had fangs when backed into a corner.

“I’ve got a few people at least. It’s… human to want connection,” he said, shifting and resettling against the wall. His mouth gained a pensive tilt, before quirking in a sardonic little grin as he turned his face in your direction. “I’m not sure I could avoid it entirely even if I wanted to. I have a hard time not getting attached.”

“So you control how those relationships happen.” You held out a hand filled with chicken to Sherwood. His tail wagging, he hesitantly took a few licks. When nothing further happened, he came a little closer and began to eat. “I get that. But I can’t fight as well as you. What’s my option for keeping people safe? Honestly, the closest I’ve come to a real friend in years is you,” you admitted reluctantly, reciprocating his confession with one of your own, “and that’s only because I know you can defend yourself.”

And even with how much you genuinely _liked_ Matt, you still couldn’t risk opening yourself to a red thread with him. It was a slippery slope, one that started with the deceptively innocent, _‘it’s just Matt, just the one friend._ ’ But slowly you knew your hunger for connection, for friendship would grow, and it wouldn’t be long before those red threads multiplied beyond your control. You could envision yourself falling in, with Foggy and Matt and Maya and Daniel. You’d grow complacent, consider calling old friends or family like you’d been tempted to do in the past. Inevitably  somebody would find you, try to force you into their service. You would have nowhere to hide with so much red wrapped around you. And Matt, humanly-vulnerable Matt, he would be right there beside you, shedding blood in an attempt to protect you as he would for anyone else in the city. Not for wealth or to use you for his own purposes, but simply because you _needed help._ He was a martyr, offering up his own body in exchange for the safety of others.

No. You would not chance stealing the Devil away from Hell’s Kitchen.

“I won’t risk you or anyone else,” you said softly, scratching at Sherwood’s ears. “It’s safer this way, trust me.”

His lips parted on a frustrated sigh as he went to kneel in front of you. “Please, you have to let me—” He froze. Like a bat, his head tilted, rotating and shifting back and forth as he narrowed in on a sound.

“What do you hear?”

“A woman, two blocks away. She’s screaming for…” He frowned before rising and about-facing to the door. He yanked it open. “Stay here. Don’t leave without me.” He didn’t wait for an answer before disappearing out into the night with no small sense of urgency, leaving you alone in the abandoned salon.

You turned back to Sherwood, who wagged his tail again. “He does that a lot,” you confided. “More chicken? Maybe if you sit?” As soon as his butt plopped down, you gave him another piece. “Good boy! Wanna get the leash on and we can take you back home? Good idea?” You got a woof in reply and shifted to dig around in your pocket for the leash. Sherwood snuffled at the bag in your other hand.

From his throat rumbled a low growl, bone-white fangs revealed by curling lips as his focus redirected towards the door. You quickly shifted up onto your heels, clicking off your flashlight and leaving you in the dark.

 _“-aw the light in here, I swear,”_ came a drunken slur from out front.

_“Well, let’s have a look, then.”_

You rose to your feet, scanning the salon. There wasn’t anywhere suitable to hide except the back room. Sherwood had already begun backing away, retreating towards the safety of the office, and you made to follow. You hadn’t taken more than two strides backwards before footsteps made their way up to the door, and a heavy hand shoved it open.

“What do we got here?” The first man through the door was the largest, wide and tall, dressed in worn jeans and a stained white t-shirt. Fortunately for you, most of that size appeared to be food-induced rather than muscle. A half-finished cigarette dangled from his grinning mouth, smoke trailing lazily upwards and collecting against the ceiling. The second, third, and fourth man who entered ranged in size from scrawny to bulky, though none as large as the first. Man Two and Three wore the same lewd grins the first man had graced you with. Only Four was nervous. His arms were wrapped around himself tight and he jumped at every little sound as he hung towards the back of the group. Even from where you stood you could smell the reek of cheap alcohol, the sour ripeness of a dive bar floor heavy in the air.

 _Well, shit_. You didn’t need Matt’s super senses to read the energy in the room. Your heart rate shot up as adrenaline flooded your system in preparation for a fight. “I’m just here to grab my dog, boys, and then you can have the room,” you said firmly, your stance wide as you folded your arms across your chest. You could not, in any way, show fear to the wolves in front of you. You needed to be confident and controlled, more trouble than you were worth to the predators circling you in the dark.

“But what if we don’t want the room?” said the man with the cigarette, baring his stained teeth as he met your eye.

“She thinks we want the _room_ , Robbie,” Two giggled, his cheeks flushed.

The first man, _Robbie_ apparently, snorted in amusement. “What if we’re just looking for a little spare change?” he purred. “You don’t got that, I’m sure there’s something else we can come up with.” Your hands tightened into fists and his grin grew wider. They had no idea about the blade in your jacket, and you weren’t about to tell him. You were hoping to get out of here without needing to so much as take a swing. The easiest way to do that would have been to toss your wallet and run, normally, but they were blocking your only exit, and they didn’t seem inclined to move.

“I’m taking my dog and leaving before my friend comes looking for me,” you said, your tone brooking no argument as you uncrossed your arms. Sherwood had begun to bark in the back room, frantic and high. You could only hope the sound would carry, but you weren’t going to count on it. “We’re all walking away, pretending like none of this ever happened.”

“Why would we walk away?” the third man slurred, taking a few drunk steps towards you as his friends jeered. You held your ground, watching him carefully. “We aren’t finished talkin’ yet.”

You curled a lip in disgust before forcing the expression down. Instead you stared at him coldly. “Back off,” you warned, bracing yourself. “I won’t say it again.”

“Stubborn bitch,” he grumbled, reaching out to snatch your wrist. Unfortunately for him, thumbs were easy to dislocate. He yowled as you wrenched his thumb further, not an ounce of sympathy in your grip. He yanked his hand away as you lifted a boot and kicked him in the gut, knocking him back.

“I already told you: _leave me the fuck alone_ ,” you snarled as Three nursed his thumb. There was no point in keeping the fury out of your voice now. Robbie and Two laughed at Three, shoving him before turning to you.

“Girl’s got spunk, I’ll give you that,” Robbie guffawed as he tossed his cigarette and crept forward with far more caution than Three had shown. Two took a side-route, working his way around to your left as Robbie began to direct them. “Kal, stay on that side. Tim, quit whining over your fucking hand and take the other side. Sam, guard the door.”

Their hands remained in view, which was a good sign. If they’d been intending to use weapons, they’d have had their hands in their pockets already. You rocked back and forth, loosening yourself up as you shuffled a few steps back, your eyes shifting around the room. It would be helpful to have a weapon to use in addition to your knife. Your goal wasn’t to _win_ against four opponents. One may have been possible with the tricks you’d learned over the years, or even two— _thank you, self-defense classes—_ but not four. As drunk as they may have been, they were still larger than you, _and_ you were outnumbered. You weren’t seeking victory so much as clearing yourself an escape route to the door. That, maybe, you could do. Then all you needed to do was find Matt and lead him back before they could do anything to Sherwood. “Four of you? Just to grab little old me?” you mocked, lifting your arms up to a guard position, prepared to protect your face and upper torso. “Can’t say I’m impressed.”

Kal ended up being the first to engage, Tim wary with his hand being injured and Robbie content to wait and watch. Kal made a guarded pass at your arm, an attempt to draw you in so he could use his size to his advantage. You dodged the drunken swipe, knocking it away. In response, you lashed out with a kick at his kneecap, trying to disable him. Your blow landed, and he snarled in pain as you sidestepped in the direction of the door, his leg buckling momentarily before he caught himself. With his balance still off, you were able to catch his next punch on your arms, protecting your face before you struck back with a jab, clipping his chin before withdrawing your arm back to protect your jaw just in time to block another swing. You managed another two steps closer to your escape, ducking under his clumsy right hook. You swung for his gut but he shoved you away, your back slamming against one of the stacks of water-damaged cardboard boxes. The corroded pipes inside rattled at your impact. “Now that’s enough out of you,” he spat. He approached with a limp, dropping his guard as he reached for your shoulders. You flattened your palm and struck _up_ at his nose like a coiled snake as soon as he was within range. Bone crunched and he howled, blood immediately gushing from his nostrils as he staggered back. _“Mudderfucker!”_

You’d gained yourself a precious few seconds: seconds you used to snag one of the pipes behind you. You rolled your wrist, spinning the pipe as Tim approached before you stepped forward and swung hard at his face. Tim squawked, instinct driving his hands up to protect his face. He yelped and fell back as the steel smacked against his injured hand. You kept the pipe raised and ready as you began to back away towards the door once more, but a pair of beefy arms wrapped around you from behind, pulling you up off the ground.

In the struggle, you lost hold of the pipe, and it rolled away into the darkness as you kicked backwards at Robbie’s legs. You needed an arm free if you were going to go for your knife. Robbie growled and shook you. “Just shut up and hold—” You threw your head back, your skull colliding with his nose. A hot stream spilled down your back as Robbie roared, dropping you to throw his hands up to his face. “What is it with you and fucking noses?!” You finally had the space to draw your knife as Tim closed in again, his eyes wild in determination.

Most people were initially drawn to something huge and flashy when choosing a knife for self defense, but you’d learned the value of the opposite. Multi-purpose knives like yours—small, sharp, and well kept—were easier to hide in the hand and harder for your enemy to spot in the moment before you struck, as well as easier to explain to cops if you were searched. The point wasn’t to stick around and put on a good show if you were in a fight. Your goal was to slice and _run_ while your foe was distracted. You kept that in mind as you sliced at Tim’s face. He clearly wasn’t expecting you to have a blade and he threw his hands up too late. Your knife rolled across his face in a line of scarlet, starting from the corner of his forehead and racing down and over towards his nose before entering the meaty section between his thumb and forefinger and lodging against bone. He jerked away as he screamed, your knife ripped from your grip. Dark red streamed down his face, blinding him in one eye and leaving him out of the game.

Your path had been cleared. _Hallelujah for playing dirty!_ You sprinted for the door, fully intending to make your escape.

Stars burst across your vision at a sharp impact to your temple. Your ears rang, the room around you spinning as you crashed to the ground and skidded across the floor, coming to a stop just feet from the door. You frantically struggled to gather up your thoughts but they slipped through your grasp, insubstantial and weightless. A wave of nausea washed over you and you struggled not to wretch.

Sam tossed the pipe away as he skittered back out of reach. The dripping of blood marked Robbie’s progression as he circled around to your front. You glanced up blearily from the floor. “Nice, good job Sam.” You clearly hadn’t broken his nose as badly as Kal’s if he was still speaking. “Tim?”

Tim groaned off to your right, one hand clutching at his face as he cradled the other hand, knife and all, to his chest. “Fuck, man, she cut me good. I gotta go to the hospital!”

“You’re gonna pay for that one,” Robbie growled, grasping your hair and yanking you up to stare into his blood-covered face. The world spun on its axis again at the abrupt motion.

“‘S what you think,” you slurred. Your tongue felt thick inside your mouth, each syllable fuzzy and slow to form on your lips, but you did your best. Blood trickled down from your temple. You’d probably been cut when you got hit. “Four of yer’ drunken asses and I still made you all bleed. Even bashed in that ugly nose of yours.” He snarled and swung at you with a closed fist, striking you first against your eye, and then, as your head snapped back, across your mouth. The second blow dropped you back fully onto the ground.

“Go find some rope,” Robbie snapped to Sam.

“Can’t we just leave?” Tim muttered. “Seriously, man, I gotta get this knife out of me!”

“Not before we tie her up and take her cash,” Robbie said.

“Man, _fuck you_ , you want to play with her like your last one!”

Your eyes drifted around woozily as you spat blood, wincing at your split lip as you tried to figure out your next move while they argued over what to do with you. The pipe you’d used was out of reach, as was your knife. The assholes were also standing in your way, their backs to the door. The good news was, you were _close_ , closer than you’d been the entire fight. With one small distraction, you could make a run for it, you just _knew_ it, because that door...

That door was slowly opening.

You started to giggle from your place on the ground. “What’s so funny?” Tim  snapped. “What, you waiting for the cops or something?”

“No,” you chortled manically, pointing a wobbly hand behind Robbie. “I was waiting for him.” Almost comically they turned to follow your finger, coming face to face with the Man in the Mask, the devil who prowled the streets of Hell's Kitchen hunting far bigger prey than they.

And he was not amused.

“That’s the—” Sam whispered.

“Hey now,” Robbie said slowly, holding his hands up. The temperature of the room had risen rapidly, the air thick and heavy as smoke with the weight of the Devil’s rage. Even idiots like these could sense that they were standing before someone well above their weight class. “We were just havin’ some fun. Let’s not fight. We can all just walk away.”

The Devil bared his teeth, and only the very foolish would have dared call it a smile. “You had your chance to walk away. Now it’s my turn,” he said softly, and surged into action.

Despite your injuries, you had the good sense to drag yourself across the floor to the wall where you were out of the way. You were content to let the Devil take care of them while you looked on. It may have been four against one, but the assholes would prove no challenge.

He was making far quicker work of it than you had, and with far more style. Kal flew over your head, crashing into an old mirror just to your left and shattering it into hundreds of pieces. You calmly tore a piece of fabric from the sheet covering the chair to your right, used it to pick up a shard of mirror, and vindictively stabbed it into his calf. There was no reaction. You were pretty sure he was unconscious, but it still made you feel better. Meanwhile, the Devil took a clear visceral satisfaction in the meaty sound of impact as one of his blows fractured Tim’s jaw, the punch dropping Tim like a rock. With a feral grin, the Devil finally turned his attention towards Robbie where he was backed up against the far wall.

You reached up and pressed a hand to your temple, probing the substantial goose-egg that had been left behind. That was definitely going to hurt in the morning. Blood clung sticky and cool to your fingers and you didn’t press too much for fear of disturbing the clotting. Damn it, you were covered in blood. “I liked this jacket,” you grumbled to yourself.

Robbie, now on the ground with two shattered knees, howled as the Devil wrenched his arm up until it gave way and the joint dislocated with a loud _pop_. “You’re lucky I don’t rip it off and beat you with it,” the Devil hissed as he released him, leaving Robbie a sniveling mess on the ground. Sam had long since taken off, and Tim and Kal were out of commision, groaning on the ground in their opposite corners. “You’re all going to turn yourselves in to the police. If you don’t, I will know, and I’ll find you. Understand?”

At the whimpers of affirmation, the Devil approached you and dropped smoothly into a crouch, brushing his fingers carefully at your temple. This close, the lingering heat radiated off him like hellfire. You were surprised you didn’t catch fire under his touch. “Are you alright?” he said.

“Fine, most of the blood is theirs,” you reassured him groggily. You dropped your head carefully back against the wall. Things would certainly have been a lot worse if he hadn’t come along when he did, so you were counting your blessings. Tim staggered to the door, and Robbie was doing his best to crawl. “Hey asshole! Leave my knife!”

“But—”

The Devil beside you growled.

_Clink._

“Thank you. Anyway, I’m bruised, a little cut up but otherwise fine. You got here before they could get too friendly, I think.”

He stilled, all expression leaving the lower half of his face made visible by the mask. “They were planning to touch you?” he said slowly as he turned to lock eyes on the two remaining men. Across the room, Robbie whimpered.

“Not sure,” you said absently, brushing a finger against your lip and probing the split. “The big guy was talking about tying me up and... Wait, what are you—”

The Devil surged back to his feet, stalking like a ravenous black wolf through the shadows. Kal scrambled out the door, setting the bell to ringing as Robbie’s sniveling got louder. He attempted to crawl faster, fingers clawing at the tile, but he managed only inches before the Devil reached him. The Devil’s foot came down on his back, pinning him to the floor as he grabbed the drunk’s hair, savagely yanking the man’s head back so that Robbie was forced to look up at him. The Devil whispered something too quiet for you to hear.

“I swear I didn’t—” the Devil slammed Robbie’s head down into the floor, smashing his already battered nose further, making the injured man howl in pain. The Devil lifted his face again.

“I can tell when you’re lying. Try again. Please. I’m begging you.”

“Alright!” Robbie gasped. “Alright, just a little, I swear!”

The Devil hushed him, asking him another question you couldn’t quite make out. The words you may not have been able to hear, but what you could hear was the Devil’s tone, and it remained perfectly even, cold and absent of any shade of mercy. When Robbie didn’t answer immediately, the Devil’s hand tightened in warning before the man broke, sobbing.

“Only once before, I swear to god, I swear, oh god, please.”

Even at this distance in the dark one could see the Devil’s composure crack, a tremble borne of pure fury breaking through the cold facade before he was in control once more.

”Please, god please,” Robbie whispered.

_God’s not here, only the Devil._

The Devil’s head turned, allowing you to see his profile over his shoulder. “I’ll be right back,” he told you levelly. With that, he lifted Robbie up, dragging him to the front door as the man began to wail. He thrashed as best he could, but being injured and unable to walk, his struggles were pointless.

Out the door they went into the night, disappearing out of sight.

Sherwood finally poked his head out of the back room with a whine. You clumsily waggled your fingers at him, and he hesitantly approached you to lick at your face as an agonized scream echoed through the city. You couldn’t bring yourself to feel too torn up about it.

“Hey pup.” You rubbed at his ears. He was already dirty, a little blood wouldn’t make him look any worse. “Good thing I still have the leash, huh? Boy, would my face be red if I couldn’t walk out of here with you.”

 

-x-

 

By the time Matt—and it _was_ Matt this time, not the Devil—came back around twenty minutes later, long after the screams had stopped, you’d retrieved your knife, leashed Sherwood and made your way over to the door where you leaned tiredly against the frame. As the adrenaline faded from your system, you were left jittery and spent.

Matt set a hand on your shoulder and drew you in for a hug, letting out an unsettled sigh as he did so. “You ok?” he said. “You did really well.”

  
“Fine,” you mumbled against his warm chest, winding your arms around him and blowing out a shaky breath. “Believe it or not, I’ve had a few guys try to grab me before, for my wallet or… other stuff. It happens sometimes, but I always manage to find a way out. That way was just you this time.” He exhaled slowly, his chin brushing your hair as his arms tightened.  

“I’m returning the dog before I do anything else,” you said, trying to turn the conversation to something a little more positive.

“You have blood all over you,” he pointed out in good humour. “As well as a minor skull fracture and probably a concussion. You should be resting, preferably with someone to keep an eye on you. Not walking across the city.”

“It’s not that far. I can rest _after_ I return the dog,” you insisted, releasing him and starting to push the door open. Matt huffed in frustration, reaching out to take your arm over his shoulder. Sherwood followed along politely without you needing to give the slightest tug on the leash. “It’s my job, D. Then I can worry about… everything else.”

“Do you at least have someone who can stay with you tonight?” he asked. “A roommate, or a neighbor?”

You tried to shake your head and winced at the pain that radiated down from your neck. “Nah, but I’ll be fine. I’ve taken hits like this before. If I start vomiting repeatedly, I’ll call 911. I know the signs.” His frown deepened but he was otherwise silent in thought as he helped you down the steps towards the sidewalk. You wished you knew what he was thinking. “Alright,” you told him when you both reached the street. “Go on and get out of here. Can’t have anyone seeing you.” There was no way a cabbie would take you and Sherwood when you were both filthy. While the dark leather of your jacket hid the blood on your back, there wasn’t much you could do about your mouth or the front of your shirt. That meant another walk, which in your condition was _not_ going to be pleasant.

“I’ll be on the roof following you,” he said, reluctantly releasing you as if he didn’t believe you could stand without his assistance. You huffed, and straightened your back with a hiss.  “Anything happens, and I’m calling—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you muttered. Despite the ache it caused, you tried to walk steadily. You _really_ wanted to get this over with. “Make me feel like I can’t get shit done, why don’t you.” You didn’t bother to look behind you to see where he’d gone. You trusted him to follow.

You kept your coat collar up and your head down as you walked. This being New York City, you weren’t exactly drowning in people trying to help an angry woman stalking down the street, bloodied mouth though she may have. Even with only a few concerned citizens slowing you down, it took you longer than usual to reach your clients’ apartment. It took longer _still_ to convince them, after buzzing them down from their apartment, that you did not require assistance, that your injuries were only minor, and that you didn’t need someone called to pick you up. Eventually you managed to wave goodbye after their profuse thanks for returning Sherwood, and started down the sidewalk again.

It wasn’t long before you spotted Matt waiting in a darkened alley for you. You made the detour, leaning against the brick wall beside him. You may even have sagged a little onto his shoulder, though you’d never admit to it. After a moment of quiet, he began, “I’d like to make an offer.”

“I charge five dollars a minute,” you mumbled.

He ignored you. _Probably for the best_. “I have some… experience with head injuries.” _Understatement of the year_. “It’s probably best if you have someone close by for the next day or so, just in case. To wake you up every few hours.” He was taking this blow to the head thing awful seriously. He licked his lips, hesitating before he barrelled on. “My apartment is closer than yours. You can stay with me for the night, if you’d like.”

“And by this, I assume you mean my options are going to your apartment or having you lurk on my roof and listen to make sure I’m not dying in my own home?” you said dryly.

His lips quirked. “Something like that.”

You pondered the offer over. You hadn’t been to his apartment yet. Up until now, it had been a boundary neither of you had crossed. For all that Matt was friendly with you, had developed a protective sort of fondness for you, he was cautious of exposing too much vulnerability. A caution you well understood. This was a big step for him.

Your head throbbed, a painful reminder of your injuries. You weren’t exactly looking forward to the walk home. And afterall, he’d already seen _your_ apartment. This was just balancing the scales.

“Alright, D,” you said, giving him a nudge before rocking up and away from the wall with a groan. He set a steadying hand against your back, making sure you were stable before dropping it. “You win. Just tell me which way to go.”

 

-x-

 

The first thing he did was offer you the use of his shower, for which you were _profoundly_ grateful. You’d both agreed his inspection of your injuries could wait until you’d cleaned yourself off. Blood, both yours and not, ran in thick red rivulets down your skin. You gritted your teeth and scrubbed the blood from your hair and the back of your neck, making sure to wash out your cuts. You did this until the water ran clear. Everything ached, and you were continually gripped by nausea and the heavy weight of fatigue. You grumbled as you pressed your hand to the cool tile, keeping yourself upright in the dim light. One of the light bulbs needed replacing, but you actually found the low level of illumination a comfort. Equally comforting was the subtle scent of clean soap that lingered around you. That it didn’t smell like anything more exotic was not a surprise considering Matt’s heightened senses: the shampoo you’d found was unscented, the soap likewise.

By the time you got out of the shower, you were well and truly exhausted, fumbling with the towel to dry off. Matt had lent you a pair of well-worn sweats and an old t-shirt, both quite a bit too big for you, and it took you more tries than you were comfortable admitting to get your limbs into the proper holes. _Confusion. Balance issues. Headache. Maybe it’s good I’m here…_

Next you had to deal with your clothes. Your jeans had somehow come out unscathed, so these you folded and set aside, as well as stuffing your socks inside your boots. Your shirt and jacket, however, were a lost cause. You removed your knife sheath and blade, setting them with your jeans. Next you emptied the jacket’s pockets before shoving both the shirt and jacket inside the garbage bag Matt had provided.

That done, you shuffled out into his living room, narrowing your eyes as garish red light flickered in from the massive windows. No wonder he could afford rent here; that sign was truly obnoxious to anyone with a working set of eyes. Matt rose from his place at the small dining table, moving to your side to take the garbage bag from your hands. You thanked him, making your way to where he’d been seated as he went to drop the bag by the door before returning. He’d removed his mask, letting you get a good look at the tired lines of his face as he helped you settle down into one of the two beat up dining chairs that accompanied the table, the wood creaking under your weight. He’d already pulled out the first aid kit—which included a few butterfly bandages—and set it on the table. “Not stitches?” you mumbled, dropping your head to rest it against the smooth wood.

He chuckled, going to wash his hands in the kitchen sink. “Sounds like we can get away without them this time, fortunately for you.”

“What does a cut that needs stitches sound like, out of curiosity?”

“It’s hard to explain,” he said, returning and dragging the other chair close to yours, your knees brushing against his. You quickly spread your legs wide, giving him room to work. He lifted his hand, lightly cupping your jaw and tilting your head away to expose the cut at the end of your brow. “If it’s an open wound, you can’t hear the skin rubbing together there. Just… exposed muscle, which sounds different than skin when it moves.” You barely felt the sting as he used gauze to wipe away at the blood that had welled up since the shower before he reached for a butterfly bandage. “Sometimes the cuts are jagged, though, and that sounds more like, I don’t know. Shredded aluminum foil rubbing together. There’s not really anything else that torn skin sounds like.”

“Well, at least you have good, steady hands,” you murmured as he pressed the cut together and applied the bandage. His touch was sure and experienced as he smoothed the sticky edges down, his fingers lingering to ensure the ends remained firmly set. “Setting a pretty high standard for first aid. You’ll spoil me.”

“Did you expect me to just start fumbling my way around?” His lips pulled up into a smile, and you helpfully turned your head so he could slide his fingers into your hair. You caught a playful glint in his dark eyes as he tapped his fingers around near your ear, as if he didn’t know exactly where the lump on your head was. “Can’t seem to find anything. Are you _sure_ you got hit?”

“Ha. Very funny.”

“I do my best.”

You leaned farther over, your gaze flickering distractedly over the shelving across from you as he finally brought his fingers up to the lump on your temple, probing around it carefully as you added absently, “and don’t knock fumbling. Can be fun in the right scenario.”

_Wait, what did I just say? Stupid concussion! Not the time for flirting._

Matt laughed _,_ his cheeks flushing pink. “I’m not sure first aid is one of those scenarios.”

“Well damn, there goes that erotica novel I was working on.” _Just… shut up. I need to shut up._

“I’m sure you’ll come up with some good ideas to replace it,” he said warmly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he withdrew his hand. “That one doesn’t need a bandage. It’s a small cut, and the fracture underneath is minor. They should both heal alright as long as you’re careful.”

You were beginning to realize, as you watched him, how vital it was he wore a mask as the Devil. Sure, that black cloth was mostly to conceal his blindness and his identity, but he was also incredibly expressive without the mask or his glasses. Every emotion he felt was on display right in front of whomever might find their eyes drawn to him. At the moment, that happened to be you. You admired him sleepily as his blank stare drifted towards the general area of your mouth. You blinked as he gestured. “The split… did you already—”

“I washed it out,” you said, lifting a hand before dropping it. You resisted the urge to lick your lip or to probe at it with your tongue. “Haven’t put anything on it yet.” In truth, though you could have dug around in Matt’s bathroom to find some antibiotic ointment, the thought of him listening to you awkwardly fumbling around in his medicine cabinet had been too much to bear. “Do you have something I could-”

“Yeah, of course. Should have thought of it earlier,” he said, digging through the kit until he’d retrieved a small silver tin that he placed in your hands. You ran your fingers over the smooth metal, the silver finish worn down by use. “This’ll help keep it from getting infected. Should heal a little faster, too. Old Murdock family recipe.”

You clucked your tongue. “Matthew, revealing your secrets so easily? How scandalous.” It took you a moment to unscrew the tin, your fingers slow to follow your brain’s commands. You finally removed the lid, gathering up some of the smooth, waxy material inside. You caught a faint, almost honey-like scent that reached your nose as you smeared a bit over your fingers. Quite pleasant compared to some of the other stuff you’d used in the past. You ran it gently over the cut at your brow, careful not to disturb the butterfly bandage, and applied some to the lump on your temple as well, biting back a groan at the instant relief that seemed to seep into your skin. It was only as you eagerly lifted your thumb to your lip that Matt’s hand darted out, grasping your wrist and halting your motion. ”What?”

“You were… you were going to open the cut again.” He ducked his head. “You were going to press too hard and the angle was off. Here, just...” His hand slid up over yours. Your fingers were shaky, maybe too shaky to do this on your own— _is it because he’s so close?—_ without opening your split lip again, but with his assistance, you managed the barest pressure as he guided your thumb gently over your lip, leaving a faint honey scent and a soothing coolness behind.

You sighed as the dull pain finally abated, and his legs nudged yours as a shiver slid down his spine. “There.” His voice was so quiet, you had to strain to make out the word. He still hadn’t released your fingers even as your paired hands dropped slightly. “Not as good as new but it’s on its way.”

“Thank you.” You turned your hand so you could grasp his and squeeze, running your thumb over the scars roadmapped along his skin. “For all of this. I mean it.”

He tightened his grip in response before rising to gather up the kit, returning everything to the box and disappearing behind you into the kitchen.

Water ran in the sink as he washed his hands again. _Right, I need to do that too_. You wobbled upright, and shambled your way after him, taking your turn at the sink once he was done. Without the pain to distract you, your fatigue took center stage. Even as you rinsed your hands, your eyelids drooped and your head started to drop. You lifted your head back up at the sound of your name and the arm around your back, focusing on Matt where he stood beside you keeping you upright. “Hey. Last place you want to fall asleep is at the sink. The bed’s more comfortable. I can sleep out here.”

“I am not stealing your bed,” you insisted roughly, shaking him off and making a beeline for the couch. “That’s just… it’s rude.”

“It’s really not. I won’t be sleeping much anyway,” he insisted. “I need to wake you up every few hours. And I have some legal paperwork I need to work on.”

You shot him a narrow-eyed gaze as you stopped in front of the couch. “Are you lying to me?”

“Possibly. It depends on whether or not it’ll get you into bed.”

Were you not concussed and dog-tired, you _definitely_ would’ve commented on that one. “What are my odds of you pestering me all night if I continue to resist, Counselor?”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’d say close to one-hundred percent.” You snorted, and he smiled. “I wouldn’t bet against it, if I were you.”

“Fine,” you groused, turning towards the bedroom. “Who am I to deny such an insistent offer? You’re lucky you’re so handsome.”

“I’m told it’s saved me a few times,” he chuckled, shadowing you with an arm poised to grab you if you fell. You didn’t think you were that far gone, but it clearly made Matt feel better to know you wouldn’t fall. _The Devil is a mother hen. Will wonders ever cease?_

He left the light off in his bedroom, for which your sensitive eyes were grateful. He set his hand against your arm and led you through the darkness without faltering once, his steps sure and confident. He finally brought you to a halt as the front of your legs bumped into the bed. Despite all your grumbling, as he helped you into bed you knew the decision to move from the couch was the right one. “ _Shit,_ ” you sighed appreciatively into the thick pillow. The fabric beneath you was soft as sin, and you wanted to roll around on the bed like a dog after a bath. Face pressed into the pillow, you were enveloped in the subtle scent of clean sweat, incense, detergent, and something distinctly _Matt_. _This is the best bed I’ve ever slept in. How does he ever leave his apartment?_  “Is this made of angel wings or something?”

“Close, but not quite. Angel wings are a little hard to come by these days,” he said, pulling the blankets up over you. “It’s silk. Feels better on my skin.”

You sighed, letting your eyes drop closed as he murmured something.

_Smoke drifts up from the table, swirling lines leading back to half a dozen overflowing ashtrays that surrounded a wrinkled map. You clutch the lock of hair tighter in your hand. You always hated it here._

_“Try again,” says the man in the white coat. “Which direction?”_

Matt touched your shoulder, startling you back to wakefulness before you could fully drift off. “Hey,” he whispered. He was kneeling beside the bed, just in front of your face. “Hey, it’s just me. You’re ok.”

You groaned, swallowing around a dry throat and rolling over onto your stomach with a wince as your body shrieked in protest. You hated when your mind did this, dumping old memories into your dreams like a child with a handful of coins at a well. “Come on, I was so close to really sleeping.”

“You already were, actually.” He was letting your reaction go, for which you were incredibly grateful. His voice radiated amusement as he yawned and added, “it’s already been two hours.”

You buried your face back in the pillow. You’d forgotten how drained he must have been as well. He’d had his own battles tonight, and you hadn’t even bothered to see if he’d been injured. At the very least, he’d be tired. Guilt gnawed at you. “Have you slept at all?”

“You don’t need to worry about me. I’m not the one who’s hurt.”

_So that’s a no._

“Are you as comfortable as you’d be in bed?” you asked. The silence that met you was answer enough, and you wanted to shake him—and yourself—for so easily allowing you to take over the space he was most comfortable sleeping in. You let out a harsh breath. Well, he wasn’t going to let _you_ sleep on the couch. You turned your head, your eyes adjusted enough to the dark to make him out. “Do you have a better objection to sharing the bed than ‘ _I have work’_? Talk to me, Matt.”

He blew out a sigh, scrubbing at the back of his neck and refusing to look at you. “I just don’t want to risk making you uncomfortable,” he admitted softly, though he didn’t seem willing to elaborate. And maybe that reason was enough on its own, you supposed. “That’s the last thing I want.”

“I’m telling you you won’t,” you said firmly. “The bed’s big enough for both of us, and it will make having to wake me up every few hours _really_ easy.”

More silence.  He was considering your offer, you could tell, his brow furrowed in thought. Sensing your gaze on him, he turned his face towards you, his own eyes shifting around without any real pattern as he bit his lower lip and released it.

You changed tactics. “I have nightmares,” you told him, lowering your voice as if revealing a terrible secret. “Horrible ones. Awful. With alligators and snakes and all sorts of evil things.”

That got you a smile. “I see. Well, hear, anyway.”

You lifted one finger solemnly. “And I can already tell they’ll be awful tonight. Unless I have someone over there.” You hooked a thumb towards the open space in the bed. “Having another soul around keeps them away, wouldn’t you know it? _And_ you won’t be sleep deprived tomorrow.”

“Can’t have that,” he said in amusement.

Yeah, you had him now. “Well, you _are_ a vigilante. I get the feeling you want to be at your best when you’re leaping from rooftops and dodging gunfire.” You slithered back down under the covers like an animal returning to its burrow. He rose behind you, moving towards the door. “Hey, I thought—”

“I just need to put a few things away,” he said softly. “I’ll be back. I promise.”

What could you do but trust him as you dozed off again?

 

-x-

 

The two of you repeated the ritual a few more times that night and into the morning.

_“Are you awake?”_

_“Fuuuuck you, fuck. No.”_

_“That works.”_

At one point you stirred as he rose from the bed, Maya’s ringtone on your phone a soft trill that made its way easily to the bedroom. “I’ve got it,” Matt told you quietly, resting a hand briefly on your shoulder. The pale pre-dawn light creeping in the windows cast him and the room into soft relief, coloring the space grey and easy on your eyes. “Go back to sleep.”

You weren’t sure what time it was when next you awoke. The light had brightened from the muted grey of daybreak to full morning. Cars rumbled by outside, horns blaring as frantic drivers hurried on their way and people shouted on the street. You let your eyes adjust, taking in the sight of Matt’s room in full light for the first time.

The wall you were facing was made of faded, mismatched brick, most of the paint long-since worn away. Set a bit farther down the wall towards your feet was a large, segmented window, the glass foggy and heavily opaque. The red, yellow, and grey panes were just as mismatched as the brick. You shifted your head to glance further down, spying a dark wooden dresser looming against the wall. The wood floors were clean of any clutter one might usually expect to find in a bachelor’s bedroom. Matt had clearly utilized the limited space well. Even the bed didn’t take up too much room, which may have explained your current coziness.

Matt had an arm thrown around your waist, his legs slotted up behind yours, and his body pressed to you at every possible point. Against the nape of your neck, his warm breath flowed with the slow and steady rhythm of sleep, his face nuzzled in close. _Is this what he was worried about? That he’s… a cuddler?_ Sure it may have bothered some people, but you weren’t one of them. And it was far from a mortal weakness, something he should be ashamed of. Or maybe...

 _“I have a hard time not getting attached.”_ Wasn’t that what he’d joked earlier? The self-deprecating tone had suggested there was no small amount of truth to it. It was a dangerous trait for someone like him to care so easily and so intensely. Matt, you were quickly discovering, _felt,_  and felt deeply. This may have been an advantage when it came to a fight, every cruelty a splash of accelerant that stoked the fire that lay banked inside him. It was also a terrible risk, leaving him vulnerable, open to harm whenever he tore his chest open and gave another piece of himself away: to Karen and Foggy, the sweet old lady one floor down, the gap-toothed child that played on the stoop next to his office, his clients...

This was a man who, even more than you, longed for connection: who couldn’t help but care about the people around him, no matter how much he tried to guard himself from forming such attachments. Not for the first time, you wondered how many threads Matt would have if you opened yourself to see.

He made a soft, sleepy sound behind you, the noise shaking you out of your thoughts. You were fairly certain he’d be embarrassed if he realized how close he’d moved in his sleep, though you didn’t mind. The physical contact from Matt, instead of being unnerving, was incredibly comforting. You hoped it was the same for him, even subconsciously; you were starting to suspect he was more than a little touch-starved, a thought that made you ache. 

After last night… well, you could be forgiven for allowing yourself a moment of weakness, here where it was safe and warm and soft.

Humans weren’t meant to be alone, to be isolated. Matt had been right on that front. The mind and body improved in function when one was afforded loving physical contact. They similarly deteriorated when such a touch was absent. From the first breath a human drew upon their bloody, violent entrance into the world, they sought touch. They regulated themselves based on others—on a heartbeat, on a breath, on emotion. Isolation was torture for a reason. You weren’t _that_ alone, thank god, but this kind of embrace was rare enough that you were floating on the cloud of chemicals your brain was producing.

Or maybe that was the head injury.

Matt’s breathing changed, quickening as he drifted towards waking. You yawned and slowly rolled upright to a sitting position, his arm sliding from your waist. You figured it would be easier for the both of you if he didn't know about the spooning. He stirred as you groaned and stretched, achiness still heavy in your limbs and making your movements stiff. You felt like shit, but you’d have felt like shit on _fire_ if you hadn’t gotten what ended up being a fairly decent night’s rest. “What time is it?” you mumbled. The window near you wasn’t transparent enough to expose the city and allow you to make an estimate. Sheets rustled behind you and something clicked before a robotic voice cooly informed you of the time. You groaned again, leaning forward to rub your hands over your face, careful to avoid the cut by your eyebrow. “After ten? Really?” You hadn’t even thought to phone Maya to update her. She was probably worried, even with your habit of coming in late after long nights tracking someone down.

“Your partner called earlier.” Matt’s voice was raspy and rough with sleep, pleasant to your ears as he moved to sit up as well on the other side of the bed. “I told her you’d had a rough night, and I was keeping an eye on you. She said she’d take care of anything important today and to give her a call when you could.”

On the one hand, you thought, Maya holding down the fort would be a blessing until you were back on your feet. Despite sleeping most of the night, you still felt like you could drift off at any moment, your thoughts muzzy and slow to form. On the other hand, she was naturally suspicious, and your handsome, charming lawyer answering your phone would be more than enough to get her salivating over potential gossip. Not much to be done about that either way.

“Thank you,” you said, finally getting to your feet with a wince and turning to face him. You touched a finger to your lip curiously, your eyebrows rising when you found the skin far less pained, the split healing more quickly than it would have normally.

“Didn’t believe it would work?”

“I was skeptical, I’ll admit.” You laughed, dropping your hand. “Consider me a convert.” Only then did a thought occur to you. “Wait, don’t you have to be at work?”

“You could say I go way back with Mr. Nelson and Mr. Murdock,” he said, grinning at your chuckle. “It’s fine. I talked to Foggy, I’ll go in a little later if I have to. I wanted to make sure you were alright.”

 _Still keeping an eye on me_. There was that guilt again. You may have stitched him up a few times, but he’d gone above and beyond with this. You needed to repay him somehow. “You really, _really_ have to let me do something to pay you back. I’m falling behind here.”

He frowned, and you had to distract yourself from the adorable way his brow furrowed. “It’s not like that. It’s not a… a game where we each score points. I was happy to help.”

“Well,” you said slowly, walking past him and making a beeline for his kitchen. “I can at least make you breakfast, right? I may not be a master chef, but I’m damn good at making breakfast. Waffles are my shit, man.” Despite the phrasing, it wasn’t actually a question. You _were_ going to make him breakfast before you headed back to your apartment, so help you god.

“Should I really be letting the woman with the concussion handle sharp knives?” he mused, trailing after you.

“Is it any worse than letting the blind man play with fire at the stove?”

“At least we’re on equal footing, I suppose.”

 

-x-

 

You were loathe to admit that Matt may have been right, but after tossing the ruined eggs in the trash—and steadfastly ignoring Matt’s muffled laughter behind you—you made the call to order delivery from a bakery nearby. You were also determined to pay before Matt could. You knew the sneaky little bastard would take care of the bill if you weren’t watching.

Of course, this wouldn’t have been a problem if you’d been able to make the _motherfucking eggs_.

You popped a few painkillers and dozed in one of the armchairs as you waited, Matt disappearing to shower. When the knock came, you rocked up to your feet with a grunt and made your way to the door. “Not bad for time.” He was definitely getting a good tip for those croissants. Upon swinging the door open however, you were greeted with someone who was very much _not_ the breakfast delivery you’d been expecting.

Foggy stared wide-eyed at you, a carrier of coffee clutched in his hands. His eyes darted over you, analyzing—bedhead hair, Matt’s clothes—and you could only imagine the story he was concocting. You lifted your hand and pointed emphatically in the direction of your eye, your gesture encompassing both the butterfly bandage at your brow and the black eye that had developed overnight.

“Right!” he exclaimed, giving you a sheepish grin. “Sorry.”

“Eh, don’t worry about it.” You held the door open for him as he entered, locking the door behind you before following him down the hall. There were three cups in Foggy’s carrier, you noticed now. “One of those for me?”

“Of course,” he said with a sniff. “The Nelsons don’t raise _cavepeople,_ Jane. Well, there was my cousin Ned, he was pretty prehistoric. Don’t know if I’ve ever heard him offer someone a drink, and he _still_ owes me twenty bucks from when we were kids.” He clucked his tongue as he made his way to the table. In the bathroom, the shower turned off. “But he changed his name and moved to Chile, I think, so we don’t have to deal with him anymore and everyone’s happy! Except for Chile, but I’ve already sent their consulate an apology letter.”

“How did you know I was here?” you asked curiously, slowly inhaling the scent of fresh coffee.

“Well, I didn’t know it was _you_ -you,” he admitted, flopping into one of the chairs by the table and pulling his messenger bag off his shoulder. “Matt just said he was looking after someone and he’d work from his apartment today. I figured I’d just bring over anything he might need, and maybe snoop a little. I have to watch out for my best friend, you know.”

“Do you now?” you huffed a laugh.

“What was I supposed to do?” He held up his hands helplessly. “You could have been a thief or con artist, here to steal Matthew’s good silver or his innocence! Although I gotta tell you,” he lowered his voice, “you’re probably out of luck on the latter.”

“Well, he’ll be glad you came and foiled my plot for today. I was just about to make off with his sweats here.” You plucked at the worn grey fabric in question as you took your own seat, stealing the coffee not marked _M_ or _F_. “After all, ‘control Matthew Murdock’ is just step one in my master plan.”

“What’s step two?”

You blew gently into your coffee. “Take over the world, like any good supervillain. That Loki guy failed, but my plan is foolproof.”

“I’m sure this dastardly scheme absolutely would have succeeded if not for me.” Foggy nodded politely, flicking his fingers in your direction. “He loves those pants. Ooh, were you going to hold them for ransom? Although I’m not sure what for.” He glanced pointedly around. “Despite our _extravagant_ lifestyles, we are in fact quite poor, much to my younger self’s disappointment.”

You snorted. “Then I’d trade for his soul, obviously. Or whatever virtue he has left. Wise to keep my options open.” You sipped your coffee—cautious not to put pressure on your split lip—and sighed at the hot, bitter rush across your tongue.

“Always smart, but you’re going to need more than just the sweats for that last one if you want him to take the deal,” he mused, rubbing at his chin in thought.

“You know him. Enlighten me.” You leaned forward, resting your chin in your hand. “How would you proceed?”

“Are you attempting to convince me to betray my dear friend?” He feigned disbelief, huffing in offense as he crossed his arms. “I will have you know, I am a man of principle.”

“What’s your asking price for counsel?”

He uncrossed his arms. “Couple million bucks and the state of Wisconsin when you take over.”

“Done.”

Foggy leaned in conspiratorially. “Then I’d go for his silk sheets, if I were you. Hold those over his head and he’ll fold like a house of cards.” He leaned back and casually sipped his coffee. “He gives you his remaining virtue, your machination can continue, and I get money _and_ the greatest cheese-making state in the country. It’s win-win-win.”

“Please stop plotting to give away my virtue again,” Matt told Foggy dryly, shaking his head as he passed. His hair still damp, he pulled his glasses from his pocket and slipped them on as he disappeared down the short hallway leading to the front door. “I’m pretty sure that’s an ethics violation, anyway. As is being complicit to a world domination scheme. I shouldn’t even be hearing this.”

 _Knock knock_.

“A good lawyer must know when to look the other way!” Foggy shouted before turning to you with a shrug. “And in this case, I’m totally willing. To look away, that is.”

“Is it because I pay you money?” You arched a brow and lifted your cup.

Foggy grinned and tapped his cup cheerfully to yours. “ _Because you pay us money._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun facts:  
> -Knees are excellent weak points.  
> -Sherwood is a Keeshond mix. He is very interested in food and not at all interested in getting overly involved in fights.  
> -Google says the best knife fight is one where you don’t draw. But that would be boring.  
> -Matt is a cuddle octopus, I will die on this hill.  
> -For some reason, Robbie speaks with an English accent in my head.  
> -This is only half of what was intended to be the full chapter. I decided to post instead of keeping ya’ll waiting while I worked on the next part. Also I’d have had to cut it in half for being too long anyway.


	4. What Goes Up Must Come Down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Like everything in your life, nothing comes without a catch, and this one's a bitch. Thanks, universe. 
> 
> In which there is a failure to communicate and your job comes back to bite you in the ass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're still here, thanks for sticking around! I know I haven't updated in forever, apologies (and if the world could just pay me to write fanfic all day, that would be great)! Rest assured this story remained in my thoughts even as I ran around doing other things. And now season 3 is almost here, holy shit! 
> 
> So... who's in the mood for a little angst? I am! Let's do this!

“This particular case will require a different approach, but you should be more than capable.”  
  
You accepted the folder Mr. Winter handed you, flipping it open to skim through the pages. You’d been given the usual amount of information for a Winter contract. While there were no clues as to the target’s family, his occupation, or a method of approach, you were provided several descriptors, a code name, and anything that might help you hone in on his current location: _Mr. Raven. Five-foot-seven, hispanic male. 190 pounds. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Last known location: the Jolly Goat Coffee Bar._ He’d last been seen a few days ago, buying his traditional flat white as he did every morning at exactly 8:30 A.M.. Then he’d gotten into a cab and disappeared into the city. There had since been no contact with family or friends, no calls into work.  
  
Where as anyone else would have struggled with so little, you needed no additional details to do your job. Your ability to solve cases with little to no information provided was a strong draw for some of your shadier clients, and most of your contracts were designed with those particular clients in mind. They were few and far between, but they paid you well for your ability to get the job done with a minimum of questions.  
  
_A possible abduction, or did he just want to disappear?  
  
_ Then again, the _why_ wasn’t your problem. The box was checked for _‘No contact required_ ’, so you wouldn’t even be contracted for an approach. You’d simply have to send out an alert once you found the target.  
  
You skimmed through a few more pages, hunting for what had changed. Nothing had been slipped in that you could tell, no fiendish additions, no signing on to give birth to the antichrist. Nothing except...  
  
“You want me to use your driver?” You marked it with a small scratch of your pen. You’d need to add that to your records when you sent them to Maya. You hated being driven. You much preferred the freedom of being on your own feet, able to move wherever a thread led you. On occasion, however, a quicker mode of transport was requested by your clients.  
  
“It may not come to that. We’re making our own efforts to locate Mr. Raven but if we should prove unsuccessful over the next two weeks, we’d send a driver to pick you up at the location of your choosing. The driver would carry the item you’d use to track your target.”  
  
“You’re aware I don’t operate outside the city?” you asked. It was one of the requirements you were never willing to give on with clients. The great roiling sea of bodies that was New York City provided safety and anonymity, and you weren’t willing to sacrifice that for cash you could easily find within the five boroughs. Not that Mr. Winter needed to know that.  
  
“We have no reason to believe he’s left New York, but yes. Should he for any reason be outside your working area,” he shrugged casually, “you’ll fulfill your end simply by informing us he’s no longer within city limits.”  
  
“Sounds good.” You flipped to another page and tapped it with your pen. “And to reiterate: you’re equally aware my rate doubles if you’re keeping me on call, around the clock, for two weeks? I’ll have to turn some clients away, because I’ll be prioritizing your call should it come in.”  
  
“Yes. And we’re happy to compensate you accordingly for that prioritization and any lost business.” As always, in addition to the proper forms and signatures, he’d come prepared for your questions. Having you on call was new for him, though something you’d occasionally done for other clients. Something must have changed. You made a mental note but said nothing. You were paid handsomely in part for your discretion and you were happy to relax—and earn some easy money—while waiting for a call that might not come.  
  
He folded his hands in his lap and leaned back. “Other than being on call and the driver, there shouldn’t be much you’d do differently. When you found the building the target is in, the driver would make a phone call. Then he’d turn the car around and drive you to wherever you wish. Fairly straightforward and easier for you than walking.”  
  
The corner of your mouth tugged up in a wry smile. “Is that all the driver is? An effort to make this easier?”  
  
“I will admit, we had your security in mind.” He flicked a bit of dust off his pants leg before smiling at you. You were unsure whether the smile was a tell or him trying to put you at ease. “This simply adds an extra layer of safety, and also protects you from the heat as you track your target. Wouldn’t do to have you collapsing from heat exhaustion.”  
  
_Yeah, I’m sure it’s my welfare he cares about.  
  
_ You drummed your fingers on the table, considering. Being on call you could handle, especially for what he was willing to pay, but being driven… you didn’t like it. You never had when you’d allowed it in the past. It saved _time_ , sure, and kept you cooler in the heat of summer, but it also left you trapped in a confined space with someone who might be dangerous. In contrast, on foot, you had a half-dozen escape routes at any one time. In a car driven by someone other than you, your options were limited. You’d also be watched, which meant you wouldn’t be free to communicate your situation to others—no calling the cops, Matt, or your partner without giving it away. Up until now, Mr. Winter had played above board with you and his contracts had all been squarely within your comfort zone. By all rights, you should trust him, and yet with him you’d always felt like you were in the room with a lion: one who’d just eaten, but could be convinced to make room for seconds if you pressed the issue. Caution was required, no matter how sated he appeared.  
  
This was another test. You were fairly certain of that. Whether you passed or not would be up to him.  
  
“We’re aware that this falls outside your normal operating procedures,” Mr. Winter said innocently. “So obviously we’re willing to pay your higher fee. Even if we successfully find the target before you’re needed, you’d be paid just for keeping your schedule free.”  
  
The lure of those dollar signs was a strong temptation, one that might be enough to sway you. You weren’t sure what that said about you, but then, you’d long since realized you worked in the murky grey zone between black and white. Your hunger for money was a pattern, a habit borne of the need to survive. The best way to do _that_ was with money… and Mr. Winter had the deepest pockets you’d found yet.  
  
You’d been doing this long enough to know Mr. Winter’s type, to know the danger of a coiled serpent, be it dressed in rippling scales or a fine suit. He was a criminal of some flavor, of this you’d become certain. His previous contracts had all the trappings of something illegal—no names, no faces, and all of your payments provided by shell companies—but he’d played by your rules, paid you well, and kept you from overhearing or seeing anything questionable. Someone like Matt may have turned Mr. Winter down on sheer principle, but you? Could you really afford not to take the case?  
  
You glanced up at him thoughtfully. “Nothing else changes?”  
  
He flashed you a perfect crocodile grin. He knew he had you. “Nothing else changes,” he confirmed. “Feel free to check in with a friend before and afterwards if you like, and just let the car do the moving. Relax! The luxury is a small price to pay, hm?”  
  
Ultimately, as Mr. Winter had no doubt foreseen, you signed the contract. Still, it bothered you, and you continued to think things over as you saw Mr. Winter out. In your email to Maya detailing the meeting, you went so far as to underline the words _‘I don’t like it_ ’. Too much could go wrong for you to feel comfortable. You could be attacked by the driver or driven away from the city. You needed someone to have your back until the case was over.  
  
The obvious solution to the problem—or the second solution directly after the first, the first being _don’t take the fucking job_ —was to tell your favorite vigilante. You had a feeling, though, that Matt’s answer would be the same as what should have been yours.  
  
There was another problem: getting him involved was bound to be messy. This was far more than finding someone’s lost cat. He’d want to know what the job was, why you were tracking Mr. Raven, and who was involved. It was a logical path from there, and Matt was no idiot. He’d follow that thread right to more troubling questions and begin to dig: how long had you been working with Mr. Winter, who was no saint? How many other likely criminals had you been contracted with in the past? How far away from Matt’s black-and-white world were you? Not only was too much snooping on his part a serious risk to your most profitable business relationship, but you weren’t entirely sure how well you’d be able to handle the hurt and betrayal you’d see on his face when he found out what the shadier side of your business entailed. It left a sour taste in your mouth, one you were unused to after being disconnected for so long. Your determination to avoid any connections to others meant you could not allow yourself to be swayed solely by what Matt’s opinion _may be_ … but you were still human, and therefore wanted do your best to avoid any unnecessary hurt, on _both_ ends.  
  
Your desire to spare yourself Matt’s reaction wasn’t worth a cut throat though, especially if you could convince him to at least be discrete. You growled in annoyance, buzzing Daniel to send in your last client of the day. The skies outside were flushed a heady orange, the humidity condensing on your windows like raindrops. You hadn’t seen Matt in a few days, in either of his occupations, and the odds of him still being at his office by the time you were done with your last client were slim unless he was on a case. If you didn’t catch him on the roofs tonight, you’d have to make time to pop over to his apartment and ask for his help.  
  
_I’m not relying on him because I like him. I’m relying on him for survival. Nothing more._

Even you didn't believe yourself.

 

-x-

 

Another cat. Always with the cats.  
  
That night found you trailing after a red thread tracked directly from the owner themselves. These cases—red thread point to red thread point—were always trickier. Without an item in your hand you couldn’t risk closing your sight and losing the thread, which meant keeping yourself open for the entire trek. It was risky and invasive, exposing you to threads you had no right seeing or worse: weren’t _safe_ seeing.  
  
Your target, Anya, gave no fucks when it came to your feelings on the matter.  
  
You’d started at the client’s apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, greeted by a young couple in a near panic over the loss of their prized Russian Blue. Despite their assurances that Anya loved her mousies and catnip sockies, you’d found yourself with no thread to follow save the one attached to the owners themselves. You’d been trailing along gamely, tracking Anya for several blocks, twice having to clamber up a fire escape to get a good look at her one roof over as she meandered along. This was made especially irritating due to the cat-carrier strapped to your back. Fortunately it was New York, and so a random woman clambering around fire escapes with a cat carrier was completely unremarkable.  
  
Finally, you cornered Anya on a rooftop—dimly lit by a few old lamp posts—as she stopped to lounge across a humming AC unit. No surprise; the late-spring heat wave you’d first met Matt in had been a herald of the truly brutal summer to come and even after dusk when the sun turned away and the air cooled, you were sticky thanks to your climbing. _At least they’ve painted this roof white instead of black or it would be damn near unbearable._ You wiped your brow, thankful for the breeze, and carefully set down the carrier. Then you pulled the bag of cat treats from your back pocket, crinkling the plastic. Anya’s ears perked.  
  
Up here, the light of the threads at street level glittered like endless streams of Christmas lights, a woven tapestry of connections that bound the city of millions together. The threads pulsed and rippled, changing color as their end points moved and came together and fell apart, a living kaleidoscope that could make you dizzy if you focused too much on one area. It was beautiful, a sight you never failed to enjoy. And with no one around you, no threads you had to fear seeing, you could take a moment to do so.  
  
A man shouted one alley over, the sounds of a distant scuffle reaching your ears and drawing your attention back to the rooftop. You ignored it with a sigh, refocusing on Anya as you lured the dusk-blue feline closer. _Probably just drunks having a fight_. “Here kitty, sweet kitty.” You settled down against the waist-high brick barrier that wrapped the perimeter of the roof. Then you shucked your jacket and sprawled your legs out as you tossed treats in Anya’s direction, pausing only to tug on the front of your tank top in an attempt to circulate some air across your skin.  
  
Movement on the next roof over caught your eye, a blaze of threads and light that nearly blinded your sight as someone ascended. You swiftly closed your second sight, getting a better look with your physical eyes. It was a familiar black line, moving more sluggish than usual tonight. Grateful you'd closed your third eye before you could see too much, you reached up, making a fist and rapping it against the brick as Anya came to sit between your legs and beg for more treats.  
  
_Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap.  
  
_ Anyone else wouldn’t have heard the muffled impact your fingers made. Matt’s head snapped to face your direction and you started to wave before remembering that it was probably pointless to do so at this distance. You weren’t sure how far his senses for movement extended. It didn’t seem to matter. He made his way towards you, his form steadily growing larger against the backdrop of the skyline. Something concerned you about his walk as you watched. His gait was slow, stiff, his body not moving with the grace you were accustomed to seeing. You swallowed a gasp as he leapt across the gap between rooftops, his landing clumsy. The jarring impact had him wrapping one arm around his ribs with a grimace as he regained his footing.  
  
You started to rise but he waved you back down as he approached. His chest heaved, breath coming in harsh pants. You furrowed your brow as he dropped down beside you with a pained groan, the scent of blood, sweat, and leather washing over you. Anya gave him the stink eye but otherwise didn’t move, content once she realized he wasn’t there to steal her treats.  
  
In your worry, his name almost slipped off your tongue, your lips forming the first consonant before you stopped yourself. “D,” you corrected yourself. “You’re not looking so hot tonight.”  
  
“I’ve had a rough couple nights,” he mumbled. He stretched his legs out in front of him with a sigh, one of his boots brushing your own before it slid past as the long line of him unwound. He was burning hot, the heat of his body radiating through his own sweat-soaked clothing and warming you where you’d begun to cool down. It didn’t help that he was sitting closer than he usually did to you, a scant few inches separating your bodies. He didn’t seem to notice as exhausted as he was. “How’s your head?”  
  
“Got a checkup like you wanted.” You tapped your skull. “Doc says my head’s fine.” You held out another treat for Anya as you considered what approach with Matt you wanted to take. He’d close up like a bear trap if you simply asked, _‘are you ok?’_ right at the start _._ You’d have to come at it from a different angle, work your way up to the question. Matt removed a battered glove and reached out to the cat, letting her sniff his fingers before giving her a soft scratch on the neck. She accepted the worship she was due with great regality. “Everything else is pretty much healed up. And I meant to ask...”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
You turned your head to put him squarely in view, frowning at what you saw. The exposed skin across his jaw was pale, his breathing rough despite being at rest, and just under the edge of his mask you caught a line of ugly purple bruising. His arm was wrapped around his middle again, his fingers flexing in time with his breathing as if each inhalation brought pain.  
  
“You’re worried about me.” The soft words carried a breathless tone as he tilted his head in your direction.  
  
“What gave it away?”  
  
He lifted his ungloved hand and gently brushed the back of one finger over the lines between your brow before dropping his hand. “The skin tightens here when you’re worried.”  
  
“Yeah, well, I am worried.” You leaned forward in an attempt to get a better look at him. After a moment’s thought, you turned and dumped out the cat treats, leaving Anya to eat as you dusted your hands off and turned to face Matt fully. “How bad is it?”  
  
“I’m fine.” His wince as he lurched away from you revealed the lie and you narrowed your eyes. “Just a torn stitch. I’m alright.” Knowing Matt it was far more than one torn stitch. He never did things by halves, including bloody wounds.  
  
“Just let me see.” You clucked your tongue, edging closer. He braced a shaky hand against your shoulder, holding you back. You leaned into his grip to make a point as his strength wavered. “You can let me look and make sure it’s nothing serious, or you can lie and I can follow you back to your apartment to make sure _you_ don’t die this time.” The words—a deliberate mimicking of his the night you were attacked—brought a scowl to his face. “I know where you live now, you realize this?”  
  
“Stubborn,” he muttered, drawing his arm back and letting you pull up his shirt.  
  
You rolled your eyes. “Pot: meet kettle. Not so nice when you’re on the other s—” You were unable to finish your sentence, cutting yourself off as you finally got a good look at his injuries. You had to stop yourself from swearing a blue streak, pressing your hand over your mouth.  
  
A massive swath of bruising marred his skin from hip to sternum on his right side, blooming upward and outward across his rib cage in a sea of sullen black and vivid indigo. The color was only broken up by a bloodied patch of gauze, taped down tight against his side. You could only imagine what it was covering considering the damage you could see and the fresh, brilliant splash of blood slowly seeping through. The opposite side of him was less severe but no less painful looking for it, with more bruising and angry red lacerations in the midst of the healing process.  
  
“I didn’t want you to see,” he murmured apologetically. “It… looks worse than it is, I imagine.”  
  
“You idiot,” you whispered, your fingers just barely grazing around the edges of the bruising. His muscles jerked under your touch, tightening enough to force a hiss from his throat as his head thumped back against the wall behind him. The hem of his shirt dropped from your fingers and you reached up to cradle his jaw, drawing his attention back to you. He rolled his head into your touch, stubble rasping against your palm before he caught himself and straightened. You didn’t let him escape entirely, your fingers following his movement. “ _How bad?_ ” Despite the gentleness with which you touched him, you couldn’t help the frustration that colored your words.  
  
He went to drop his head but you caught his chin with your thumb and forced his head back up. He couldn’t _see_ you but it was the meaning behind it that mattered. He sighed before speaking. “Broken ribs, concussion… a few… stab wounds.”  
  
You closed your eyes and breathed in slowly through your nose. That was why you hadn’t seen him for a few days. He’d been injured, badly, and you hadn’t even known.  
  
There was no way in hell you were going to ask about him helping you with Mr. Winter. Not in his current condition.  
  
“I met a nurse,” he said unhelpfully, as if that somehow excused the fact that he was running around with broken bones and a hole in his side. “Accidentally." There was a small part of you that questioned if he met people in any other fashion these days... "She was able to help patch me up.”  
  
“Not the point, D,” you groaned, dropping your hand from his chin to scrub your hands over your face. “Jesus, that’s not…”  
  
“I had to do it,” he insisted, trying to straighten against the wall behind him. “They took a boy, the Russians did. I had to—”  
  
“The goddamned _Russians_ again?” You forced your tone down into a hiss. Of course, _of course_ it was the Russians again. Matt never seemed to have a problem taking a swing at those others couldn’t—or wouldn’t—touch. That recklessness in and of itself was not a surprise to you, and fit with what you’d learned about him. No, your _problem_ was that not only had he picked another impossible fight with the Russians, he’d decided to come out and do a little extra clean up around town afterwards despite being seriously wounded. “No! No, just,” you slashed a hand sharply, cutting him off as his mouth opened. There was no way he’d let any injustice go— _especially_ when it came to vulnerable people like kids. And you couldn’t ask him to. But this? “Just… I’m not mad about that. For fuc… I get that you had to do it, I support you doing that. That is _not_ what’s got me frustrated.”  
  
His lips parted and he tilted his head at you quizzically, reaching out to take one of your hands. “Then what?”  
  
“You need to take time off to heal, Ma— _D._ ” God, he needed to _rest_. What kind of damage was he doing to his already battered body running around like this? You wanted to club him over the head and chain him to a bed until he was _better,_ until his bones had finally mended and his flesh had knit back together.  
  
“I can handle the pain,” he said stubbornly. No, you didn’t want to chain him down, you decided in exasperation. You wanted to grab him by the collar and shake him until all of his masochism fell out like shitty candy from a Matt-shaped piñata. You wouldn’t even need a bat since someone had already given him a beating.  
  
He simply had no concern for himself. His own body wasn’t what mattered to him. If you wanted him to take this seriously, you needed to try another tactic.  
  
“If you get hurt worse because you _didn't_ take care of yourself now, you’ll have to spend longer recuperating.” You squeezed his hand. “If that happens, it’ll be easier to slip up, and you won’t be able to help anyone. Not me, not more kids, or victims of the Russians. No one.”  
  
“That’s not fair.” He shook his head sharply, the movement making him twitch. “That's not…”  
  
“And yet it’s true,” you said softly, hovering a free hand over his bruised ribs. You knew he could feel the heat of your hand, and you used that for emphasis. His breath hitched and his body curled, as if he wasn’t sure whether he wanted to press towards or away from the pain you were offering. “You can barely walk. The wrong person gets hold of you now and you’re done.”  
  
“I know, I just...” His head turned back in your direction, his hand sliding down to grip your wrist. His fingers brushed over your pulse point. He didn’t need to touch you to sense your heartbeat; maybe he found it reassuring, being able to feel as well as listen. “I can’t ignore what I hear. Not anymore. Not when I could stop it.”  
  
“If you’re gone, you won’t be around to hear it anyway.”  
  
_And I’ll be alone again.  
  
_ You viciously smashed that fear back down into the darkness of your subconscious. You were already alone, you told yourself sharply. There was nothing terrifying about that; you’d done just fine so far. In fact, it was a good thing you couldn’t ask Matt to help you. That had been a mistake to even attempt, your yearning for connection getting the best of you again. Allowing him to come along was one thing, but _asking_? No. You went your own way for a reason. You couldn’t afford to become complacent.  
  
“Hey, I’m not going anywhere.” He rubbed his thumb reassuringly over your pulse point. “You don’t have to worry about me.”  
  
“Hey, someone has to, right?” You nudged him, rising up abruptly. “Go home, Matt. Take some pain pills, go to sleep. You’ll be back to kicking ass in no time if you take it easy for a bit, I swear.”  
  
“You’re probably right.” He grimaced, and you slipped a hand under his arm to help him get to his feet more smoothly. The fact that he accepted your help told you how bad off he was. “I can’t have anyone noticing at the office.”  
  
“They will _definitely_ notice if you collapse from a punctured lung after someone knocks those broken ribs of yours sideways,” you agreed, Anya grumbling as you caught her by the scruff and carefully loaded her into the cat carrier. “I’m going to check in with you and make sure you’re not fucking yourself up, don’t doubt me. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” You closed the carrier latch and lifted the container. Inside Anya meowed pitifully, bumping her head against the carrier door and reaching out to swat at Matt’s hand when he attempted to rub her chin through the bars. _I guess nice-kitty time is over._ “This girl has some owners who are looking for her.”  
  
“Stay safe on the walk home,” he said, rolling his shoulders with a groan.  
  
As you shoved your arms back into the sleeves of your jacket, you were struck by the desire to hug him before heading off. He looked like he needed it, but you weren’t interested in jostling what was obviously a painful set of injuries, so you simply saluted before pivoting on your heel and striding towards the fire escape.  
  
_What was I thinking? I don’t give hugs. Hugs are bad. Idiot. He’ll be fine._  
  
Your name stopped you, and you turned to glance back at Matt. “What were you going to ask me?” he said.  
  
The question hung in the still air as you examined him: his arm still wrapped around his rib cage, and the pale flash of skin left bare by his mask. You blinked and the mental snapshot of his battered body appeared in your mind’s eye, stark and cold and crystal clear. _Yeah, not going to happen_. “It’s not important.” You gave a half shrug. Your words weren’t a lie. It was more of a selective truth—your question wasn't important because his health was more so. If you mentioned needing his help, he would come no matter his condition. He’d risk himself, his body, his life without a thought. And that was unacceptable. “Just a… question. That was all. Have a good night, D.”

 

-x-

 

With Anya returned to her ecstatic owners, you were officially off work for the night and headed home. Relief beyond words washed over you as you climbed into your own bed after you’d washed the sweat and grime from your skin, drawing your blankets up with a heavy sigh. Work sped by quickly over the next few days, and with no calls from Mr. Winter, you took easy cases as they came—directing the more labor-intensive ones to Maya. You also checked in on Matt, who claimed he’d been following your orders and absolutely positively had not been doing anything reckless, other than letting Foggy bring in leftovers to share.  
  
_“He said the noodles were fine, but I’m lucky I didn’t pass out if I’m honest.”  
  
_ The comment—and your memories of his bachelor-bare fridge—did remind you of an idea you’d had, though… a way you could repay Matt for all the help he’d given you and balance the scales a little. It would also benefit you, allowing you to retain a certain amount of distance. That night you began your project, and thanks to Mr. Winter’s contract, you had an unusually large amount of spare time to work on it over the next week and a half. As you progressed, you slowly filled your freezer, endless stacks of Tupperware and Ziploc bags piling up. Finally, when it was ready, you packed half of it away into a giant cooler and brought it to the office, squirreling it away in the communal freezer until the end of the day.  
  
At lunch-time, you called Matt.  
  
_“_ Hey.” You took a sip of your coffee, doing your best to keep your voice casual. “I might be busy for the next couple days, but I wanted to know if I could drop off your clothes after work?” Unlike the project in the freezer, his clothes were neatly folded in a small bag under your desk. You hadn’t had anything to wear back to your own place after staying the night at his apartment, and you hadn’t gotten around to returning them yet. That worked in your favor now.  
  
_“We’ve got a case from an important client and we’ll be working late tonight, so I won’t be there.”_ Excellent. You resisted the urge to rub your hands together, knowing he may well hear it over the phone. _“I have to run home to change clothes though. I’ll leave a key to the roof door under a mat. Just lock up behind you and take the key with you. You can return it next time you see me.”  
  
_ With that, it was just a waiting game. You were down to the final two days of Mr. Winter’s contract, so you hadn’t taken any clients that might interfere. That left you free to head over to Matt’s apartment as soon as you clocked out at five. Of course there was a snag. At 4:47, as you were packing everything up and preparing to leave, you got the call.  
  
“Hello?” you answered, holding your cell to your ear as you continued to pack your papers away.  
  
_“Ms. Hinde, good afternoon._ ”  
  
“Afternoon, Mr. Winter.” Your delivery to Matt’s may have to wait if you were finally being summoned to locate the elusive Mr. Raven.  
  
“ _I’m afraid there’s been a minor shift in priorities, and thus our request. Nothing substantial_ — _simply a change in target.”  
  
_ You stopped packing away your papers, focusing solely on the call. This was a first, and your tone went from friendly to completely professional in the span of a heartbeat. “In my contract, it’s stated that any last minute changes may be cause for termination of the contract, at my discretion.”  
  
_“We’re aware. Very little would change. The driver would still come for you. You will not be asked to approach. Simply find the building for us, just as before. You can of course refuse, as is your right. I’m to inform you that my employer is amenable to providing a bonus for any willingness to adapt, however.”  
  
_ You hesitated, glancing down at the papers, calculating risks and running the numbers in your head. This could be yet another test, probing the limits of your abilities. _Nothing changes. It’s the exact same job. Doesn’t hurt earning a little good will, either.  
  
_ “I’ll accept the change.”  
  
_“Excellent. We’ll need time to procure the item. The driver will pick you up at 9:30PM. Your office, I assume?”  
  
_ If you left now and traffic was with you, you should have time to hit Matt’s, run home and change, maybe grab dinner, and make it back to your office with time to spare. “My office works.”  
  
_“Good luck, Ms. Hinde.”_

 

-x-

 

There was no doorman at Matt’s apartment, so you had no trouble getting inside the building and taking the aging elevator to the top floor, from there making your way up to the roof.  
  
You hadn’t been up here before. The space was flat and open, not meant to be used but still free of clutter. There clearly wasn’t a lot of foot traffic, which made sense with only two doors leading to it—one of which led straight into Matt’s apartment. As you hurried to the door, you glanced down, shaking your head at the smattering of dried blood-drops scattered merrily across the warm concrete. A good rain would wash it away but knowing Matt, that wouldn’t keep it clean for long.  
  
You kicked the old mat, snatching up the key from the ground and letting yourself in.  
  
It was strange being inside his home without him there. You’d only been there the once, for about two days after he’d convinced you to stay the recommended forty-eight hours of monitoring for a concussion victim. Matt was too persuasive when he put his mind to it, making a case that dripped with legal jargon and emotional pleas until you were so tangled up you’d agreed simply to get that puppy-dog look off his face. Foggy had rolled his eyes so hard you thought they were going to pop free from his skull.  
  
_“You folded like a house of cards, woman! You’re never going to conquer the world at this rate! And then who will give me the state of Wisconsin?”  
  
_ Now it was quiet, no hushed breathing or the muffled sound of Matt padding around in socks and sweats like some stupidly handsome domestic god, all casual smiles and soft eyes. Not one dripping pipe, nor a jangling A.C. unit. That was a good thing, you supposed. With his senses, such sounds would have been beyond irritable.  
  
You crept down the stairs, feeling as if you were intruding despite the ok from the king of the castle himself. You just wanted to leave the clothes and the gift, and make your way out as quickly as possible before you got the desire to snoop around. You spared a wistful glance at the bedroom door. The supreme softness of that bed would not soon be forgotten.  
  
It felt too invasive to go into his bedroom to leave the clothes, so instead you left them neatly folded on the table, a braille _thank you_ label stuck neatly to the middle. Next you made your way to the fridge. When you’d gone to make the eggs that morning after your attack, you’d found very little to work with other than takeout food and beer. Matt had apologized, but you’d understood. Neither you nor he had much of a reason, or time, to cook, and making recipes for one wasn’t always practical. But it _had_ left you with an idea for repayment, especially now that he’d been injured the worst you’d ever seen him. With a bit of information on the sly from Foggy, you’d put your plan into action.  
  
You’d spent the past week and a half cooking. Half of the results were back home in your freezer, destined for your own stomach. The half here with you went straight into Matt’s freezer: homemade waffles, baked ziti, stuffed peppers, and a few other recipes that froze easy, were reasonably healthy, and tasted, to your tongue at least and hopefully Matt’s as well, delicious. With the knowledge gleaned from Foggy and a little from Matt himself, you’d pared down some of the seasoning in an effort to spare Matt’s sensitive tongue. You’d also made sure to stick a braille label identifying the food to each tightly-sealed Tupperware container. As the _pièce de résistance_ , you shoved some Canadian maple syrup for the waffles into his cupboard and set down the sheet of paper containing heating instructions for each meal—also in braille. In a fit of whimsy, you’d slapped a red bow on it.  
  
You locked the door behind you, pocketed the key, and not once did it occur to you what the Devil had done by granting you temporary access to his home. Later you would wish that you’d understood the meaning behind it, how vulnerable he’d made himself. You may have done things differently if you’d known.  
  
Instead, you took your cooler home, changed, and prepared to head back out and meet up with Mr. Winter’s driver.

 

-x-

 

The driver was early, your ride idling outside your office as you arrived with ten minutes to spare. With the money already wired into your accounts and no phone call alerting you to an additional change in plans, you fired off one last text to Maya—one that would hopefully ensure news reached Matt if things went sideways:  
  
**_Text sent at 9:26pm:_** _if I miss check-in, let Matt know I can’t meet. then come find me  
  
_**_Text received at 9:27pm:_** _good luck girl, be careful  
  
_ The driver remained seated inside the car when you approached. He was completely unassuming-looking: brown eyes, average build, dark hair hidden under a cap. He had no particular features that stood out as memorable. Mr. Winter had always placed a high value on avoiding unnecessary attention, and that apparently extended to his drivers. The only unsettling aspect of the driver was his flat stare, a cold mask of indifference as he met your eyes. He only provided a short reply when you questioned if he was there for you. “Mr. Winter sent me. I’m to drive you wherever you need.”  
  
A sense of unease roiled inside you as you slid into the backseat of the sleek black Mercedes. The interior was as polished as the exterior: all smooth black leather, new car smell, and dark tinted windows that left you feeling trapped rather than protected. The sounds of the city disappeared as you shut the door—even the rumbling purr of the engine died away to a mere whisper, felt more than heard in the soft vibrations under your fingers as your hand clenched on the door handle. _Soundproof. Great. I don’t like this._ You'd thought there would be a barrier between you and the driver, providing at least the illusion of privacy. Instead there was nothing but open space. Should you attempt to make a call, he would hear anything you tried to say, and if Mr. Winter was as dangerous as you thought, it was possible the driver would be under instructions to stop any such phone calls from occurring.  
  
You needed to tread very carefully here.  
  
On the empty seat beside you sat a dark wooden box of polished walnut, along with a thin file. Ignoring the driver, who likewise ignored you, you reached over and took the file. Inside, there was only an index card with a code name and a physical description.  
  
_Mr. Donnola. Five-foot-eleven white male. 174 pounds. Blonde hair, blue eyes.  
  
_ You turned the card over, but there was nothing on the other side. Next, you opened the wooden box. Inside, arranged on black velvet fabric, laid a small copper crucifix on a thin chain. This was presumably what you would be using to track Mr. Donnola.  
  
You drew it up, letting the chain slide through your fingers as you examined it. Though it held a shine on the front, it was dull across the back of the crucifix itself and around the chain. _Worn regularly then_ , you thought. Your thumb passed over faint initials engraved on the reverse side. You quickly moved your fingers away. Learning this man’s real name would only cause problems.  
  
You twisted the chain up, wrapping it around your fingers until it hung comfortably in your grip with the crucifix exposed. Glancing up, you caught the driver’s eyes in the rear view mirror. He was watching you closely. He didn't ask you which way to go, but the question hung in the air regardless.  
  
Lights flickered, colors visible only to you as you opened your second sight and immediately zeroed in on the blue thread connected to the dangling crucifix in your hand. You inclined your head to keep the driver’s threads out of your sight line. “Turn left as soon as you can. Then just keep going. I’ll let you know when we need to turn again.” Still eerily silent, the driver shifted into drive and pulled away from the curb, following your quiet guidance.  
  
It went like that for most of the drive, with very few words spoken: all of them by you. You would indicate a direction, and he would obey, weaving his way through traffic with the skill and patience of one used to driving in the city. Steadily the little blue thread grew taut, indicating your target was close, or at least within city limits. You focused on that, blocking out your nerves and your unease, pushing down all other thoughts but the job in front of you. That focus led you to a tiny, abandoned two-story house in Queens.  
  
The house rose up from the parched dust, a faded _Condemned_ sign pitched out front. There was no light to be seen from the darkened, dirt-smeared windows, and the waist-high brown grass out front rippled in the breeze as you peered out the car window. It was fenced off and the gate padlocked shut, rusted chain link topped with spikes edging the property line and separating the building from its similarly-condemned neighbors. A closer look however revealed holes in the fencing through which an animal or particularly determined human might squeeze.  
  
Everything about the house said _abandoned, empty, no one home_. The little blue thread trailing up to the second floor and disappearing through a window told you otherwise.  
  
“You sure?” It was only the second time the driver had spoken to you that night. His voice was toneless, uninterested. He had no dog in this fight; his only job was to drive. At your confirmation, he nodded and pulled out his cell to make his own call. You waited, resisting the urge to fidget as he recited the address and hung up. He glanced at you again once he’d finished. “Your office?”  
  
You blinked. “Is that it?”  
  
“Yup. Your office?”  
  
You shrugged. “Sure. That works.”  
  
The driver nodded, slipping the car into drive once more and beginning the trip back to your office.  
  
You leaned back and stared out the window, fiddling with the crucifix as the car rolled down the quiet street, the tension in your shoulders finally beginning to ease. This had gone better than expected. True to Mr. Winter’s word, you’d never even had to leave the comfort of the car, and just like that you were done. It was always nice when things turned out. Maybe you hadn’t needed the Devil after all.  
  
The driver’s cell rang. You didn’t react, keeping your eyes glued to the window as you strained to listen. Before you could parse out what was said, the call was over.  
  
“Everything ok?” You did your best to keep your tone casual.  
  
The driver didn’t reply. Instead, he made a u-turn.  
  
You’d developed a good sense for danger over the years, and your lizard brain was sounding the alarm. The hair rose on the back of your neck. “Why are we turning around?” you asked, your voice a touch sharper. You still received no answer, the driver’s attention remaining firmly ahead.  
  
You briefly considered leaping from the car, going so far as to run your hand over the door handle—but no, resistance met your grip when you gave it a tug. You pulled harder, and found no give. _Locked. Of course it’s locked._ That limited your options greatly. You could always attack the driver with your knife and try to get free that way, but it was a risky proposition without a great chance of success. No way Mr. Winter would leave his drivers defenseless. You ruled that option out. "Hey! Where are we going?"  
  
Sweat broke out across your temples and down your spine as the driver continued to ignore you. Through the window, familiar scenery flowed by. He was taking you back to the abandoned house you'd pointed out. Something must have happened.  
  
_Or they're going to kill me now that I’ve found him.  
  
_ You eyed the corner of the tinted window. You’d only just begun to lean back and lift one leg when the driver sighed. "Those windows are designed to withstand sniper rounds and explosions. Your foot won’t leave a scratch."  
  
You scowled and lowered your leg, rising to a sitting position again. “In that case I’ll ask again: where are we _going_?”  
  
"Everything will be explained."  
  
_So helpful, thank you for that.  
  
_ He refused to answer any more questions, leaving you in silence no matter how insistent you became. You stared out the window, flexing your hands. You could slip your phone out and try to call Matt, but any call you made would be overheard. Keeping your cell out of the driver’s sight line would mean shit if he heard the crackle of Matt's voice when Matt answered your call.  
  
Your best bet would be to text Maya, try to give her a rough location of where you were. You edged your hand down towards your pocket.  
  
_Stupid stupid fucking stupid,_ you chided yourself. You should have told Matt… but what could he have done, beat to shit as he was? All he’d have done was gotten himself hurt worse, or maybe even killed. It also could have blown the cover off your friendship with the man in the mask. If Mr. Winter wasn’t going to kill you before, that may well have done it.  
  
You’d only just gotten your hand on your phone when the driver drew up to the abandoned house, now bustling with activity.  
  
_Out of time_.  
  
Mr. Winter had been reasonable up until now, and had proven open to negotiation more than once. You'd just have to talk your way out of this. Or maybe things would go perfectly and you weren’t in any danger at all. Maybe he just wanted to thank you for all your hard work. Maybe he wanted to give you a puppy.  
  
_Yeah, like I’ve ever been that lucky_.

The driver parked the car in the driveway, turning off the ignition. As you worked up the courage to leave the car, you observed the situation outside.  
  
The front gate previously chained shut had been unlocked. Two men with flashlights combed the overgrown, fenced perimeter of the house while another man stood beside the open front door. The previously dark windows flickered as more people moved about inside with flashlights. The light emanating from the second story windows was noticeably dimmer. It took someone on the second floor ripping it away for you to realize the glass on that level had been covered over with newspaper.  
  
Supervising the activity was Mr. Winter, facing away from you. He stood upon the crumbling driveway, as immaculately dressed as always, hands behind his back as he regarded the upper windows. Standing close by in the darkened shadows of the garage were two men dressed in black. You pegged them as bodyguards immediately, based on the way they stood and the cut of their clothes that did little to hide the holsters under their jackets.  
  
Sadly there was no puppy that you could see.  
  
_Don’t keep him waiting_ , you reminded yourself, shoving the crucifix in your pocket. _He appreciates professionalism.  
  
_ As you stepped out of the car and into the heat, Mr. Winter turned to face you. His expression remained unreadable as you approached him. The two guards stepped out from the garage and took flanking positions behind him. “Good evening, Ms. Hinde.”  
  
“Good evening, Mr. Winter.”  
  
“I’m afraid we have a problem.” His voice remained smooth, a casual lilt that did little to settle you. The small smile on his face struck you as merely for show. “This was the house you directed us to, correct?”  
  
You tightened your mental grip on the panicking part of your brain and strangled it into silence. You needed to remain _calm_.  
  
“Yes sir,” you said politely. “He was here when I called.”  
  
“I’m hopeful, then, that you have a suitable explanation as to why my men failed to locate him inside.” Though it was dressed as a question, you recognized an order when you heard one: _explain_. The smile had vanished from his face and your heart skipped a beat.  
  
“If you give me a second, I can just—” You reached for your pocket, intending to withdraw the crucifix you’d placed there. With it, you’d be able to confirm Mr. Donnola’s presence and smooth things over with Mr. Winter. In the span of a breath before your hand had even brushed the fabric of your jeans, the two men flanking Mr. Winter drew their guns and leveled them at you: one aimed at your head, another at your heart. You froze, jaw locking as adrenaline raced through your blood. You’d had guns pointed at you before. Not all that was lost _wanted_ to be found after all, so it came with the territory. There was still something about having a gun pointed at you that never got any easier.  
  
“Now now,” Mr. Winter sighed, waving a hand towards the guards. “Ms. Hinde has proven nothing but helpful until now. I highly doubt she’d go for a weapon with all of us standing here, hm?” Reluctantly the men dropped their aim, though they didn’t reholster their weapons. Your arm trembled as you stifled the urge the wipe the sweat from your brow. “I must apologize for them. They’re paid to be protective as my personal security. You understand.”  
  
_Fuck fuck fuck. Why do I take these people again?_ “It’s fine,” you rasped, swallowing around a dry throat. Crisis momentarily averted, you let out a shaky breath. “I was just reaching for the crucifix in my right pocket so I could confirm he’s here.”  
  
“Please do.”  
  
Slowly, _so_ slowly and mindful of the guards the entire time, you hooked your fingers into the chain in your pocket and withdrew the crucifix. There was no gleam from the burnished metal now, as if even the necklace itself was afraid of drawing too much attention. With a small effort of will, your third eye opened and the world blazed momentarily in an explosion of color that counteracted the dark. When the lights settled, the blue thread was back, anchored firmly to the symbol in your hand where it swayed back and forth. Like before, it led directly to the house.  
  
“He should be inside,” you said. Mr. Winter raised his brows, and you were similarly puzzled. There were easily a dozen men searching for Mr. Donnola. It made no sense for them not to have found him. “Can I?” You gestured towards the front door.  
  
“You may. I’ll follow along, for your safety of course.”  
  
_Of course.  
  
_ You strode over the cracked stone pathway, grass brushing against your legs as you headed for the door, Mr. Winter two steps behind. The usual discomfort of having someone—or someone other than Matt, anyway—watch you while you did this was overwhelmed by your desire to escape your current situation.  
  
You passed multiple people as you entered the house, the old wooden floorboards creaking under your feet. Once inside it became clear that despite the crumbling exterior, someone had been living here up until very recently. Though empty of furniture, the interior was swept clean and free from all but the lightest layer of dust—dust now smudged by a score of fresh footprints. There were few cobwebs as you followed the tracks towards the staircase, and the house didn’t contain that musty, rotted smell that true abandonment brings. Even the windows were clean on the inside, the grime on the outside apparently part of a carefully cultivated facade of neglect.  
  
The thread wound tighter as you ascended the stairs, the strand humming with tension as you came closer to your target. If you touched your fingers to the thread now and focused, instead of simply holding the chain of the crucifix, you might be able to get a feel for Mr. Donnola’s current mood and emotional state. While that aspect of your ability was useful occasionally, you didn’t need it now. The fact that Mr. Donnola was still hiding told you enough.  
  
You hit the top step, encountering a hallway that stretched out in front of you. Here you paused, frowning down at the thread. To your surprise, it continued to trail up, leading forwards and upwards until it disappeared into the ceiling.  
  
“Is there a problem?” Mr. Winter’s voice was quiet, pitched low so that his words traveled to you alone.  
  
You were fairly certain Mr. Donnola was far enough away that he couldn’t hear you, but you kept your voice low as a precaution. “Did your men find another staircase? Or an attic maybe?” At Mr. Winter’s soft _no_ , you nodded, moving forward.  
  
The people searching were being more thorough up here and you could see why. Newspaper covered the windows in each room you passed by. You passed the bathroom, noting the clean razor resting on the edge of the sink as a woman dug through the cabinet. Next you passed a bedroom, one that contained an unmade bed and a desk. On the desk sat a half-filled ashtray, embers still glowing. Beside the bed was a bag and a pile of clothing. Two men picked through the pile while another rifled through the bag. This was definitely the right place, but the thread led you further.  
  
You moved past the first bedroom and went through the last door on your left, finding yourself in a empty back bedroom. As soon as you entered the room, the thread jerked, shifting until it led straight up. He was right above you. Without speaking or turning to look, you pointed straight up, glancing around the room. There was no bed or any other furniture, and when you turned your attention upwards you couldn’t spot any obvious lines in the stucco indicating a hatch or opening. Then your eyes drifted to the small closet doors on one side of the room.  
  
Your eyes met Mr. Winter’s and he must have had the same idea. He waved a hand towards the far wall and his two guards silently approached the closet, drawing their guns and pulling the closet doors open with care. They examined the ceiling inside without a sound before nodding at Mr. Winter.  
  
He gestured to you and you followed him out of the bedroom. As you headed down the hall, people hurried past and disappeared into the bedroom you’d found. When you hit the first floor, you thought you heard a crash from upstairs— _”Oscar! We been lookin' for you! Guess whose light turned on, pal…”_ —but you ignored it as you left the house behind. It had nothing to do with you, and allowing yourself to think too hard on it would threaten your deniability.  
  
Mr. Winter got a call as he led you to the waiting car. You paused on the front walk as he answered. Mr. Winter didn’t speak, only listened as the caller spoke a few words before hanging up. Mr. Winter slipped his cell back into his pocket and offered you a smile. “Top marks today, Ms. Hinde,” he said pleasantly. “Despite the… momentary wrinkle, you proved able to adapt and I’m happy to say your part in our contract has been fulfilled. You’ll be receiving an extra twenty-five percent of your bonus as a thank you for any unpleasantness the incident with my security may have caused.”  
  
“Thank you, Mr. Winter.” You would have been happy just getting out with your skin, but a little extra cash always helped to smooth things over. There was also something comforting about being able to cling once more to the shield of professionalism, as if the whole thing was nothing but a minor hiccup in your night. “Feel free to call me again if you need my services.”  
  
“Of course. Have a wonderful evening, Ms. Hinde.”

 

-x-

 

“Got those contracts, Ms. Hinde.”  
  
“Thanks Daniel,” you said absently, eyes glued to the screen as you gave the entry on your last case a final once-over. “You can just put them on the desk.” You managed to spare him a smile as he set the short stack down near your elbow. You arched a brow at the rolled up sleeves of his button down and the ink staining on his wrists. “Printer problems again?”  
  
“Fuckin’ thing,” he huffed, dropping the formal tone he used in the presence of clients, much to your amusement. “We put that braille printer in and now ol mama’s jealous, doesn’t wanna spit out anything anymore. And I don’t think we’re all lookin' to learn braille, so I been workin' on it. Managed to get these out, at least. Gonna head back to it if ya’ don’t have anything else for me.”  
  
“Nah, go for it. Show that piece of shit who runs this place.”  
  
Your cell rang, the lyrics to _Raise Hell_ interrupting your conversation as you answered and lifted it to your ear.  
  
_“You left food in my freezer,”_ Matt said without preamble.  
  
“In fairness, that was just half of what I cooked,” you replied, cradling your cell to your shoulder as you pointed at Daniel and mouthed _you can do it_ at him. He rolled his eyes, closing the door quietly behind him as he left. “The other half is in mine. You just got the overflow. Every goddamn recipe is for at least two people and I was tired of eating takeout. So this was purely logistics. I may even still come eat some of it.”  
  
_“I’m not close enough to hear your heartbeat but I’m fairly certain you’re lying.”_ He may not have been able to hear your heart, but you’d be dead not to pick up the smile in his voice. _“Thank you, is what I’m trying to say. Even if I’m wrong and this was simply you hoarding food in my fridge._ ”  
  
“How you feeling?” You changed the subject, the warmth in your chest at his gratitude not something you were comfortable with. It had been a week or so since you’d loaded up Matt’s freezer, and you hadn’t had the chance to catch up until now.  
  
_“...better. Tired, but better._ ”  
  
“I’m not going to say I told you so—”  
  
_“I sense a ‘but’ coming._ ”  
  
“But I told you so-ooo,” you sang, lifting your coffee mug to your lips. “It’s almost like _you’re_ the psychic, wow. So tell me this, Mr. Psychic: what’s tall, white, and a pain in my ass?”  
  
“ _Well I don’t know if I’d call myself a pain in your ass...”_ You choked on your mouthful of coffee, half of it winding up back in your cup as Matt continued over the sound of your wheezing laughter, _“I mean, I know I’ve been difficult, but I’d like to think that ultimately when you tally the pros and cons_ —”  
  
You snagged a napkin and wiped at your mouth with a final cough. “Goddamn, Murdock, I was talking about a stack of legal paperwork.”  
  
_“I guess I don’t have this kind of sight, either. That’s unfortunate.”  
  
_ “Your _fingers_ however, more than make up for it.” _Whoops_. Your playful tone was just a little more flirtatious than you’d planned, but you plowed on. “Think you could use them, that magnificent lawyer brain of yours, and Foggy to parse through some new shit?”  
  
_“We are a law firm, so this finally feels like it’s within the realm of my capabilities. As much as I’d like to show off though, I don’t know how much good my fingers will be until we get the contracts translated.”  
  
_ “No worries,” you said. You nudged aside the top half of the paper stack Daniel had set down, examining the bottom half which was covered in an array of small bumps. Well, it certainly _looked_ like braille. “There’s always a few bugs when these things are first installed but I am _fairly_ certain one copy is printed in braille. I think. Maybe.”  
  
_“You think?”_ His tone was amused until the surprise crept in. “ _Wait, did you get a braille printer? Is that how you printed my note?"  
  
_ You _hm’_ d in confirmation. “We used to send out to a service for it when we had clients who needed it but this made more sense now that we’re working with you two so regularly. Congrats, Murdock. You’re going to be our braille-reading guinea pig.”  
  
He chuckled on the other end. _“Well, I’m honored. I’ll try to make you proud. I can come by your office today to pick the paperwork up if you’d like.”_  
  
“Now you’re just trying to snoop around my place of business.”  
  
_“I’m just curious to find out what kind of office a psychic works out of. Is two o’clock alright?_ ”  
  
You pulled up your calendar on your computer, glancing over it quickly. 2:00 was scheduled as your late lunch since it was your only open slot today, but you could work him into that space. “Sure, I’ve got an open block there. Want to get some coffee? Only time I have to grab something. I can give you a quick rundown of the case, too.”  
  
_“I’m looking forward to it.”  
  
  
_                                                                                                                                                                                  -x-

 

It was sheer unfortunate coincidence that the block before Matt’s belonged to who it did. You didn’t know it then, of course. In fact, you were in a remarkably good mood. Matt was feeling better, your cases had been going well, and Mr. Winter’s last paycheck had gone a long way to wiping away that little incident with his security. A rich guy with uptight bodyguards was nothing unusual, you had convinced yourself. Certainly nothing to make you apprehensive about your meeting today in broad daylight. He’d even assured you it wouldn’t take long. Fortunate, since you’d now have a mere ten minutes between the end of your meeting with Mr. Winter and Matt’s arrival at two. It would leave you just enough time to skim over the paperwork for errors one last time.  
  
“I know this is sudden, but,” Mr. Winter held his hands out in a show of good will, “my employer has been satisfied enough with your service that I’ve been advised to make an offer. One I think you and your partner might be interested in.”  
  
You swung your foot back and forth under your desk and flashed him a suspicious smile. “I’m listening, although I have to say, I’m fairly happy with the current arrangement.” You’d learned long ago to never, _ever_ turned down a rich client’s offer out-of-hand. Even if it was just to soothe their pride and there was no chance of you accepting, you would listen and make a show of considering it before finally agreeing or disagreeing. Just as important was expressing a certain reluctance that might make them more likely to up their offer.  
  
“Glad to hear it. But what if I could offer you something more?” You quirked a brow as he continued, “right now, we’ve been hiring you on an as-needed basis. We’d like to offer you and your friend something more permanent.”  
  
You’d had offers like this before. In the past, before your work in New York, you’d taken them on occasion if the money and the client were good. You even had a standing offer with a mob boss in Los Angeles should you ever wind up back in the area again. As it stood, you liked your freedom here. What Mr. Winter was offering wasn’t something to dismiss out of hand, though. “And what would this involve exactly? We do have other clients who would raise objections if my partner or I were suddenly unavailable,” you said thoughtfully.  
  
He held up a hand. “We wouldn’t require you to abandon your other clients. Nothing so rash. We’d simply like to keep your business—you, specifically—on retainer. You’d receive a regular paycheck, and in return you’d provide future services. Occasionally we’d request you be on call, and we might ask you to… _prioritize_ in certain cases. Other than that, you’d be free to operate as you normally do.”  
  
“I’m guessing you have the contract with you,” you said dryly. Sure enough, from his briefcase there came a stack of paper, notably thicker than the previous contracts that had formalized your business with him. “Now _this_ I’ll have to think over, as well as have my lawyers take a look.” Or maybe just Foggy, come to think of it.  
  
"I expected no less. Take your time.”  
  
The two of you exchanged the normal pleasantries, and all the while you kept a close eye on the clock as it ticked away. There wasn’t much time left as you saw Mr. Winter down the hall to the door, breathing a sigh of relief when it closed behind him.  
  
You started back down the hall, almost leaping out of your skin at the sound of a sharp bang, followed shortly by a long string of swears from Daniel and the sputtering of a printer in revolt. You shot him a look as you clutched at your chest, your heart rate dropping from where it had hit the ceiling. “Jesus, Dan, did you shoot that thing?”  
  
“I fuckin' should! Sorry. Shit, I swear,” he growled, one arm buried deep within the printer’s cavernous belly, “I _will_ fix this piece of worthless, junk-shit, malicious—”  
  
You left Daniel to his grumbling as you headed back to your office. You’d only barely sat down before the peace of your office was again interrupted, this time by the sound of Daniel’s protests.  
  
_“Sir! Sir, let me help_ — _hey, you can’t just_ —”  
  
Rapid footsteps approached down the hall. You slid open the bottom right drawer of your desk and reached inside, moving carefully as the door opened—  
  
“Matt! God, you scared me,” you chuckled, closing the drawer. He didn’t react, holding himself stiffly as he stood in the doorway to your office. His head slowly swung left and then right, his cane held in a white-knuckled grip.  
  
“Ms. Hinde, I’m sorry, he just—” Daniel’s head appeared over Matt’s shoulder and the larger man lifted one hand as if to take Matt by the shoulder.  
  
“It’s fine, Daniel!” you said quickly, waving him off. You didn't know what had Matt so on edge but you _did_ know you didn’t need Daniel getting rough with someone like Matt, who could probably break every bone in a person’s hand in seconds. “It’s Mr. Murdock, our lawyer. I told him our layout, and he was, uh, scheduled in. I forgot to let you know, sorry.”  
  
Daniel gave you a flat, clear look. “Alright.” Daniel slunk back down the hall as Matt finally stepped fully into your office, turning to shut the door quietly behind him. He set his cane aside and for a long moment he remained there, taking deep breaths and still saying _absolutely nothing_.  
  
“Matt?” you called softly. You stayed where you were, unsure of what was going on and unwilling to make a move until you had something to work with.  
  
When he finally spoke, he still hadn’t turned to face you.  
  
“How long have you been working for him?”  
  
The question came out of left field. You were glad you were sitting or else it and the coldness it was delivered with would have knocked you flat. A palpable dread crept over you and you hoped you’d simply misheard. “I’m sorry, I don’t… what?”  
  
“I said: _how long_ have you been working for him?” He finally turned to face you, and it was so strange to see that look directed at you: flat, emotionless. His normally expressive face was completely closed off to you, revealing nothing but the stark reflection of your office in the hard, pitiless red of his glasses.  
  
_No no no_ , this was _dangerous_ , the thing you’d feared. He’d always respected this line until now—what had changed? What did he know? You sucked in a breath. It didn’t matter what he knew. You were contractually, _legally bound_ to say _absolutely nothing._ You couldn’t talk to him about whatever the _fuck_ this was even if you wanted to, because he was here as Matt the Lawyer, not the man in the mask. You needed a moment to think, to find a loophole, but first you needed to figure out what the hell was going on. If he wanted your help, you’d give it if you could just find a way to do it without risking losing your skin. And you preferably needed to discuss this _away from your place of business_ where other ears might listen in _._ “You know I can’t answer that.” It was stalling at best, but you just needed time.  
  
He gave you none.  
  
“Don’t—” he snapped, cutting a hand sharply as he approached your desk, “don’t, you don’t get to play that game with me. Not now, not after all this.”  
  
_A game,_ was that all this was to him? Your job, your contracts, everything you’d worked so hard at, just brushed aside? Your eyes narrowed. He _knew_ how seriously you took your work. You refused to be disrespected like this. “This isn’t a game,” you said coolly. “It’s my job, so _no_ , I _won’t_ be answering that question. So you can either tell me what this is about or you can fucking leave.”  
  
He slammed his hands down on your desk and leaned in towards you. You didn’t flinch, gritting your teeth and meeting your own reflection in the lenses of his glasses. The heat from him that was normally so comforting was now foreboding, tinged with his anger. You weren’t afraid—you knew he wouldn’t hurt you—but there was a sickening worry that gnawed at you because something had gone very very wrong here and you weren’t sure _what_.  
  
This close, you could see the dark circles under his eyes, the remnant of bruising around the socket. The two of you stared each other down before he spoke, his breathing harsh. “I caught his scent, all the way from the first floor.” His voice was quiet, measured, and dangerously low. “But I couldn’t find your heartbeat immediately with all the other noise between us. Coming up the elevator, I finally found your heart only to hear that bang, feel your heart race from floors away, taste the spike of fear.” You hadn’t known he’d been close enough to hear that. And if he’d thought you were in the building with someone who might hurt you… god, what must Matt have thought when he heard...?  
  
“Matt...” In your mind’s eye you can picture it, picture _him_ , startling inside the elevator at the loud sound, the momentary horror on his face, helpless to do anything but listen and wait for the doors to open.  
  
He didn’t allow you to continue. “Imagine my surprise when I finally make it to your office and not only are you fine, but he’s been visiting here _often_.” Ah, so this _was_ about Mr. Winter, who’d been in your office just minutes ago. Their elevators had probably passed each other, one going down and the other up. _Jesus_. That had been close. “You have his contracts in your desk. I can smell the ink from his checks. And then I realize… you’ve been working for that monster for months.” Your heart skipped a beat. His nostrils flared, picking up your reaction.  
  
This was why you’d tried so hard to keep Matt and your clients separate. You knew you’d done business with some sketchy people. For as long as you’d been on your own you’d accepted a wide range of clients, hiding yourself first behind a shield of plausible deniability and, eventually, legal contracts. You’d told yourself it was a matter of survival. Even after you’d been able to afford to turn certain clients away, you weren’t particularly comfortable turning your nose up after so long on the run. _Beggars can’t be choosers_. And now? Those clients had been a necessity early on and after that it had become habit, this was true, but you were doing far better than you used to. You no longer took cases that were obviously criminal even if your clients were—it hurt no one to find a mobster’s lost puppy. You avoided stalkers, and hunting known felons… and goddammit, what were you supposed to do when people who could kill you walked into your office and asked you to do your job? You were doing the best you fucking could.  
  
If he approached this from a different angle, you could work with him. You _wanted to_. Was Mr. Winter a piece of shit? Maybe. And you were willing to spend time with Matt and tell him what you knew. With his legal know-how, you were certain he could find a loophole in your contract. “I’m not at liberty to discuss my clients,” you repeated the refrain slowly, hoping beyond hope he would get the message you were trying to send him.  
  
_Think as a lawyer, Matt, not a vigilante. Please..._  
  
“I let you in my _home_.” He backed away from you, raking his hands through his hair. “You slept in my bed.” Your eyes flicked towards the door, worry creeping in that someone might be listening. He’d have heard them surely—Daniel at the door, an electronic bug in your office—but he’d seemed so flustered… had he even bothered to check? “I told you about… And all this time, you were working for them. Did they tell you to hire me?”  
  
“Matt,” you made on last attempt. “Just sit down, let’s talk about this, please.”  
  
He barked out a laugh. “Your heart’s been racing this whole time. Even if I sat down, what would you tell me?” His question was met with more silence, because in truth at the moment there was nothing you could tell him about Mr. Winter, which was exactly why you needed him to sit down so you could show him _the fucking contract_.  
  
“I can’t—I can show you the contract and why I can’t talk.” You rubbed at your temples, feeling utterly lost as to how to work through this.  
  
He shook his head. “I didn’t think so. I can’t believe this. After everything.” He turned, striding towards the door, snatching up his cane as he went.  
  
“Matt!” you called, rising from your chair. “Matt, goddammit, wait—”  
  
The door slammed behind him, and you were left alone in your office. You grabbed your mug and hurled it against the far wall where it shattered, splashing lukewarm coffee across the wall and carpet.  
  
“Fuck!”  
  
Now what were you supposed to do?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I say angst? I also meant cliffhanger. Whoops! 
> 
> Fun facts:  
> -The Jolly Goat Coffee Bar is a real place. I'm told it's quite good!  
> -Matt isn't thinking thinking straight. Long nights, paranoia, and a sudden shot of adrenaline make a lovely cocktail for miscommunication.  
> -Reader has trust issues though, I won't lie.  
> -WHAT WE HAVE HERE IS A FAILURE TO COMMUNICATE.  
> -Spot the episode references!  
> -Foggy is not going to be happy, Imma just spoil that for you right now. "you saID WHAT TO OUR CLIENT!?"  
> -Season 3 is almost here and I will of course be a responsible adult and watch it in a timely—I'm just kidding, I'm bingeing that fucker in 13 hours.  
> -Wesley continues to test reader, but he of course prefers tests that benefit his employer. He's thoughtful like that.  
> -A hint of Matt's threads, but no big reveal just yet. It'll come.

**Author's Note:**

> Love? Hate? General thoughts? Think Matt is sexy and everyone should support him no matter what? Trying to sell me something? Let me know in the comments (except that last one, I have no money).


End file.
